


Of Dust & Dæmons

by MaplePaizley, thewhiskerydragon



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Blasphemy, Canon Era, Canon-level implied incest, Daemon Separation, Daemon Touching, Daemons, F/M, Gen, Golden Compass, Gratuitous French, His Dark Materials Inspired, M/M, Non Consensual Daemon Touching, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pierre and Helene's marriage is trash, Polyamory, War, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-03-21 23:58:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 41
Words: 204,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13751901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaplePaizley/pseuds/MaplePaizley, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewhiskerydragon/pseuds/thewhiskerydragon
Summary: “You and your Dust,” Hélène said, laughing now, and laid a reciprocal hand on his knee. “Pierre, dearest, you know my mind isn’t built for theology.”“Aren’t you curious? It makes up so much of who we are.”There’s a war going on out there somewhere, but a different kind of battle is brewing in Moscow.





	1. Moscow

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, friends!  
> This right here (as you probably have guessed) is a His Dark Materials-inspired take on Great Comet. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the series, we'll explain a few things so you can hit the ground running, but rest assured that all you need to know will be revealed in due time! In this universe, people's souls take on animal forms called dæmons that walk (or fly, or crawl, etc.) alongside them. When they are young, dæmons can shift into just about any form, but once you 'come of age' (however loosely defined that may be), your dæmon 'settles' into a permanent form.  
> Dust (capital 'd') is like the Force—it's everywhere, in everything, and really difficult to explain. We'll let the characters speak for themselves. :)  
> If you're reading this, thanks for coming along for the ride, and we hope you enjoy what you see!

It had been five years since Natasha had last seen Marya Dmitrievna. So long ago, it seemed, but the time had passed quickly. Natasha had been fifteen then, barely coming up to Marya’s shoulder. Now, just shy of twenty-one and significantly taller, she wondered if Marya would be as she remembered: brusque and loud, but with an undercurrent of maternal kindness.

Adrastos hadn’t yet settled then. Now he had—a dove, small and perfect and the color of freshly fallen snow, with clever black eyes and a tail tipped with cream. Sometimes, Natasha privately thought that Marya’s Salman, a terrifying golden eagle with a wingspan wider than she was tall, seemed rather drab in comparison, but certainly not so much as Sonya’s Tobery (irony of all ironies, she mused, that between the two of them it was Sonya who wound up with a predator for a dæmon).

Presently he lay curled in the crook of her elbow, not so much asleep as wishing to be asleep while the carriage bucked and jostled around them. Natasha couldn’t fault him for being tired. It had been a long ride, longer than she ought to have stayed awake for, but the excitement buzzing in her veins was as warm and thrilling as the vodka she and Sonya had once snuck at a ball several years back, and no matter how hard she tried, she hadn’t been able to sleep.

This was more than one of their day-trips to the lake or a hunting party in the surrounding forests. This was Moscow.

“I’m excited,” Natasha announced, curling her hands in the folds of her coat. “Aren’t you excited, Sonyushka?”

Sonya did not look excited. She looked bored out of her mind, the poor thing, on the verge of falling asleep, and had looked that way ever since they had taken off that morning. Perhaps the long ride was beginning to wear on her. It was difficult to be cheerful when you had spent the better part of the past few days folded into a cold, hard seat.

“I’ll be excited once we finally arrive,” she said.

In her lap, Tobery purred softly and closed his eyes.

“Well, it can’t be much farther now.”

Sonya groaned. “God, I hope not.”

Several minutes later, Natasha turned to press her face to the window. Now perched on her shoulder, Adrastos followed suit. “Oh, Sonya, look!” she cried.

Moscow, veiled in snow and a midwinter-grey sky, was truly a remarkable sight. Not far in the distance, they could see the spires of the Kremlin Wall and the onion-domes of Saint Basil’s Cathedral. A skyline crowded with rising towers and plumes of chimney smoke, like something plucked straight from a fairytale. Even Sonya’s eyes widened in awe.

“Isn’t it incredible?” said Natasha.

Sonya nodded wordlessly, and her cheeks flushed a light pink.

On and on they rode. The streets were lined with rows of beautiful brick houses, their windows glittering behind wrought-iron fences. Here and there they could see gas-lamps, already lit despite the early evening, and narrow alleys veering off to nowhere, crammed between buildings as if an afterthought, somehow shabby and elegant all at once.

At last, they rounded the corner onto Nikitsky Boulevard. Marya Dmitrievna’s house was further down the street—a charming little redbrick with pale green shutters and a front door painted black. Natasha had never seen the house before, only heard it described in painstaking detail by Nikolai, but even so, she recognized it the moment she laid eyes on it.

Even easier to recognize was Marya Dmitrievna herself. She stood on the porch with her arms folded across her chest, a tall and imposing figure, her magnificent shock of red hair swept into an updo that only added to her height. Salman, as always, sat perched on her shoulder like a frightful guardian angel with yellow eyes and a cruelly-pointed beak.

“Natalya,” Marya called as they stepped out of the carriage. There was no need to shout. Her voice easily carried to the end of the street with enough volume to startle the horses. “Come here, my darling. Let me have a look at you!”

With the chill of the air reddening her face, Natasha skipped forwards to kiss Marya’s cheek and allowed herself to be swept into a tight hug. Adrastos fluttered excitedly above their heads. Salman eyed him with amusement.

“My God, how you’ve grown,” Marya breathed. Natasha burrowed into the firm warmth of her embrace. “Even more beautiful than I remembered. You’ll be the talk of the town before you know it.”

“I’ve missed you,” said Natasha.

Marya pinched her cheek fondly. “We’ll have to make up for lost time, then, won’t we, my dear?” Her gaze darted upwards. “And this must be Adrastos!”

Adrastos alighted on Natasha’s shoulder with a soft coo. Her hand drifted upwards to stroke at his feathers.

“Finally settled?” she asked.

“Two years ago. It took him long enough.”

“I always knew it would be a bird,” Marya said proudly. “That’s the mark of a true Rostov. Just look at him—oh, Natalya, he’s as lovely as Seren.”

Natasha swelled with pride. How jealous Vera would have been to hear that! Even now, and with great resentment, she could still remember the day her sister’s dæmon had settled. Only fourteen years old, and, as if to further add insult to injury, a beautiful trumpeter swan. Natasha had been a late bloomer and an envious one at that as she watched each of her siblings seemingly grow into adults overnight.

But now that Adrastos had settled too, all was well.

A moment later, Sonya, who always seemed to run a few minutes behind the rest of the world, came trudging up the porch, Tobery at her heels.

Marya regarded her with slightly less affection and said, “Hello, Sonyushka.”

Sonya’s smile dimmed just a tad. “Marya,” she said quietly.

“Oh, and Tobery too!” Marya said, injecting her voice with an enthusiasm that was far too saccharine to be genuine as he came tiptoeing around the hem of Sonya’s coat. “Finally settled, hm? Ah, a cat. How very…unique.”  

“A wildcat,” Sonya amended. “Like my mother.”

“Yes, just like your dear mother, may God rest her soul,” Marya said, and quickly crossed herself.

Had Natasha blinked or looked away even for a moment, she wouldn’t have seen the way Sonya rolled her eyes and crossed herself in an exaggerated and rather unflattering imitation of Marya while her back was turned. But she didn’t, and consequently had to cover her mouth with her sleeve to keep from laughing out loud.

“I trust you girls had an easy journey?”

Natasha and Sonya shared a knowing look. “Easy enough,” said Natasha. “Though I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs.”

“Of course, of course. Out of the way, now. Here they come with your suitcases.”

Tobery mewled indignantly as the porters marched by with the luggage and made a mad scramble for the carriage door. He would have made it, too, had Sonya not caught him by the belly and lifted him into her arms.

“I’m sorry,” she said, cocooning him in the fur of her muff. “He’s flustered. It’s been a long day.”

Marya waved her down with a sweep of her shawl. “No matter, darling,” she said, and began to usher them up the stairs and into the house behind the bustling porters. “We all could do with a rest and a cup of tea. Now, come in, you two. I’ll put the kettle on and then we’ll talk. But we’d best hurry—we have a busy evening ahead of us.”

Sonya’s head perked up at that. “We do?”

“You haven’t heard?” said Marya. “We’re off to the opera tonight. No better way to get you acclimated to high society.”

“The opera,” Natasha sighed, listing against the railing. “Oh, this is all so exciting.” She leaned over to tug at Sonya’s sleeve. “Isn’t it, Sonyushka? I love Moscow already.”

* * *

 

Pierre Bezukhov’s wallet was missing and Anatole Kuragin was nowhere to be seen.

Most people would not have immediately drawn a connection between these two facts, but then again, most people were not Pierre Bezukhov, nor did they subsequently have the misfortune of having Anatole Kuragin as a brother-in-law. It wouldn’t have been the first time his wallet had gone missing or that Anatole had disappeared without so much as a note. But these two instances had never overlapped before, and it set him on edge.

Only after scouring the study and then every one of his pockets and then the study again did Pierre finally relent and collapse into the armchair by his desk with a defeated huff. The wallet was gone—that much was evident—but it wasn’t the money that irked him so much as the principle of it. For starters, Anatole typically had the decency to at least ask before borrowing.

“You’ve probably just misplaced it,” said Khione.

She was his dæmon, a scruffy brown bear whose head almost scraped against the ceiling even sitting down. Pierre privately thought she looked a little ridiculous hunched over in the corner of the room, but she was too large for the armchair, and with her weight, she would’ve crushed any furniture had she tried to sit on it.

“Well, I don’t suppose it grew a pair of legs and wandered off of my desk,” he snapped.

Khione sighed. “You could always ask Hélène if she’s seen it.”

It was a perfectly valid suggestion, and probably would have worked, too, but Pierre was in no mood to have Hélène think he was any more absent-minded than she already thought he was. And so he sat back in silence, wondering if he had agreed to marry the whole damn Kuragin family when he had proposed to her.

Three years ago it had seemed a much less daunting prospect, but even then he couldn’t say that he had been particularly thrilled with the whole arrangement. He had been even less thrilled, a year later, when her little brother had arrived at their front door with nothing but a carpetbag, a crumpled-up ticket for the latest train from Saint Petersburg to Moscow, and a few dozen rubles lining his pockets.

“Papa has cut him off,” Hélène had said, seemingly torn between laughing and rolling her eyes. “Burnt through his allowance, the poor fool.”

Pierre hadn’t worried initially. Surely this would only be a temporary fix, he had told himself, until Anatole found his way back to his feet, and then he would be off on his merry way and life could resume as normal. But Anatole, he had slowly come to realize, had no intention of ever living on his own, and now it was Pierre’s money that he wasted instead of Vasily’s.

 _Ah, well_ , he thought with resignation. Fifty rubles here and there hardly made a difference in the grand scheme of things, and he had more pressing matters to worry about anyhow.

Namely, his marriage.

Pierre had realized, almost as soon as he and Hélène had wed, that he knew very little about her—about her hopes, dreams, fears, or even how to make her happy. She wasn’t overly fond of jewelry, aside from her pearls, and she was so particular with her dresses and shoes that the thought of picking something out for her made his head spin.

He did know, at least, that she was upset about the move. Her star, already on the rise back home in Petersburg, was dimming in the comparative quiet of Moscow. Clearly, it was time to change strategy.

Hence the shawl. It was a lovely thing, really, more a work of art than a piece of clothing. A tangle of embroidered wildflowers ran riot along the hem in blues and purples and yellows that stood out brilliantly against the deep red of the fabric, tasseled with gold and black. He had bought it for Hélène the week before, hidden it in his dresser since then, half out of embarrassment and half in the hopes of surprising her with a nice gift. Now he held it in his hands, wondering how best to offer it to her.

The opportunity presented itself not even a minute later when Hélène’s dæmon, Dahanian, arrived in the sitting room before he heard the click of her heels coming down the hall. A lithe, well-muscled snow leopard, he was every bit as intimidatingly beautiful as Hélène herself. And just like Hélène, he always eyed Pierre with an odd combination of pity and reproach.

“Oh, hello, Pierre,” Hélène said as she followed him into the room. Dahanian didn’t bother to acknowledge Pierre's existence—no surprise there; he never did—and made a beeline for the rug in front of the fireplace. “I didn’t expect to see you up and out so early.”

It was hardly early—almost three o’clock in the afternoon, going by the clock on the mantel. Hélène would have known this, of course, and though it was true that he had been spending more time in his study than usual, the whole thing smacked of an underhanded insult.

Pierre shrugged with as much indifference as he could muster. “I thought we should have a drink together before we go out tonight. I have something that I wanted to talk to you about.”

She raised an eyebrow. Dahanian’s head perked up. “Oh?”

Pierre drew out the shawl and held it out to her. “A gift,” he murmured. “I only hope it does you justice.”

Hélène ran her fingertips over the stitching in wonder. For once, she seemed genuinely surprised, but it quickly gave way to amusement.

“And what might the occasion be?” she asked.

Pierre draped the shawl across her shoulders with a shrug. “You deserve something nice to wear to the opera tonight. Something you won’t freeze in.”

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I wanted to,” he said bashfully. “I want tonight to be special for you. I know it’s been a while since you’ve gone out, and—”

Before he could finish, Hélène leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, one hand resting against his chest, the other curled in the shawl. Pierre flushed a startling shade of red.

“It’s lovely,” she said. Her hand drifted further upwards until it tangled in the back of his collar. Pierre’s stomach fluttered uneasily and he saw Khione shuffle in the corner of the room. Hélène’s mouth curled into a grin. “Come now, darling. Let’s have ourselves a drink.”

* * *

 

Even with a fire roaring in the hearth, the sitting room lay heavy with a stale midwinter chill that seemed to bore its way between the curtains and through the crack of the door-hinge. Hélène drew the shawl tightly across her shoulders and settled onto one of the settees by the windowsill while Pierre made his way to the wine rack.

“Tokay?” he suggested.

“I don’t see why not.”

Pierre weighed the half-full decanter in one hand. “Our last bottle of the Aszú ’98."

“Sad to see it go.”

“Well, I suppose all good things must come to an end,” he said, and un-stoppered the decanter. The tokay was cool and sweet-smelling. He inhaled deeply, savoring it. There followed a brief pause, and then, remembering the wallet, he asked, “Where has your brother gone off to?”

“God only knows.”

Pierre furrowed his brow but didn't press the matter any further. He had learned by now not to go inquiring after the day-to-day business of a Kuragin. Nothing good would come of that. Nothing he wanted to hear, at any rate.

“Will he be joining us this evening?” he offered instead, and started back into the room with the tray.

Hélène shrugged. “If he shows up, I suppose. No worry about that, now. It’s just us two, isn’t it?”

Pierre blushed. He was spared from having to reply when Dahanian attempted to climb up onto the settee with Hélène and almost dislodged her.

“No, Danochka,” she chided. “Not on the furniture.”

Dahanian swept his tail against the carpet indignantly and seated himself at the foot of the settee without further protest. He would complain later, Pierre knew, once he and Hélène were alone and sufficiently out of earshot. Such was the Kuragin way. He was only thankful they were polite enough not to attempt a private conversation with another person and their dæmon still in the room.

Pierre balanced the tray across his lap as he poured out two tumblers. He handed the smaller to Hélène.

“Dahanian still seems to think himself a lap-cat,” he said.

“Yes,” she said with a distant smile as she ran her fingers along the gleaming crystal. “I’m afraid that that time is long gone. He used to love becoming something small to curl up on the chair with me when I was little. Always something feline, though. I think he knew I’d take after Papa all along.”

Pierre laughed. “Khione too. She wasn’t all that happy to settle.”

From across the tea table, on the settee directly opposite where they were sitting, Khione shifted in discomfort. One of its legs creaked. The spring cushions groaned in protest.

“She’ll break all the furniture if she's not careful," Hélène snapped.

“It’s not intentional,” Pierre said, bristling a little more defensively than he knew he really ought to have.

“Perhaps she would be more comfortable in the back of the room. Off the carpet, of course. I don’t want her shedding all over it again.”

Pierre gave Khione an apologetic glance and tipped his head towards the far corner of the room. Khione growled in the back of her throat, but crossed the room and curled up by the bookshelf regardless.

Now Hélène turned back to him with a beatific smile and lifted her glass. Her eyes seemed to glow in the firelight, set alight with the same amber as the tokay. “Shall we drink?” she said.

Pierre raised his glass as well and tried to ignore the sight of Khione in his peripheral vision. “We shall.”

The tokay went down like a burst of sweet, honeyed fire. Pierre’s eyes watered despite himself. He had been drinking alone in his study for a good part of the morning, but only now was his head beginning to swim. Once they had half-emptied their glasses, he chuckled.

Hélène shot him a vaguely bemused glance. “What?”

“You don’t even flinch,” he said. “When you drink, I mean.”

She shrugged with a proud smile. The end of Dahanian’s tail came to rest at her wrist, curling around it like a bracelet.  

“Your mother would be horrified.”

“My mother has always been much more easily shaken than I am,” she said, and tossed back another mouthful of tokay without so much as a second thought.

“Unflappable as always,” said Pierre.

It was true—perhaps save for Marya Dmitrievna, there was not a more cool-tempered woman in all of Moscow. All of Russia, even. He wondered, with more than a little amusement, if she could have faced down Napoleon right there in the sitting room and not so much as batted an eyelid.

Hélène’s smile shifted from pride to something more mischievous. Dahanian’s expression almost eerily mirrored hers. “Let’s drink to that.”

“Of course," Pierre said.

She reached across the table for the decanter and poured out another round. When she pulled away, her fingers lingered at his wrist. “What should we drink to next?”

Pierre’s mouth went dry. “To your unflappable beauty,” he said thickly, around the awkward lump in his throat.

Hélène giggled into her hand. For a moment, she looked just as she had three years ago, during their too-brief courtship. Younger, but just as impeccably put-together, with that same air of practiced confidence that both enthralled him and set him on edge.

“My husband is such a flatterer,” she purred, stroking between Dahanian’s ears as he rested his head in her lap.

“Your husband is a lucky man,” Pierre said quietly. In an uncharacteristic burst of confidence, he placed a hand on her knee. “Very lucky.”

Hélène’s grin showed all her teeth. Catlike, almost predatory. “And I must be a lucky wife, then.”

Pierre laughed. Already, the tokay’s warm burn had begun to flood through his veins, loosening his tongue, unraveling the knot of tension between his shoulders. Why had he been so stiff and worried all morning? There was nothing to worry about here. Not now, not when he had Hélène with him. Hélène and the tokay.

“I should hope so,” he said.

“It’s been too long since we’ve sat together. I do hope your studies are worth it.”

Pierre nodded vigorously. “The things I’ve read, the things I’ve learned…there’s so much more I want to know about. I ought to tell you all about it.”

“You and your Dust,” she said, laughing now, and laid a reciprocal hand on his knee. “Petrushka, dearest, you know my mind isn’t built for theology.”

“Aren’t you curious? It makes up so much of who we are.”

"Wouldn’t you rather have another drink? Here, let me—”

“No one ever talks about it,” he said. “Don’t you wonder why?”

“You know what the Church says,” she said, but with significantly less confidence, and poured out another round anyway. “It’s heresy. It’s sinful.”

And because he was already more drunk than he either realized or cared to admit, Pierre shook his head with a stilted, “Absolute nonsense. It’s science. It’s in all of us—how could that possibly be a sin?”

Hélène shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Dæmons are Dust, you know,” he continued.

Now Hélène’s smile dimmed. Of course she knew, he chided himself. Every man, woman, and child knew that, at least, but if she had taken offense to his patronizing tone, she hid it well.

“Not until they settle,” she said, and pushed another glass into his hands.

“How can it be heresy, then? Is your Dahanian a heretic? Is Khione?”

Dahanian’s head shot upright at the mention of his name. Across the room, Khione redirected her gaze towards the fireplace.

“Pierre,” Hélène said sharply. “I don’t think we should be discussing this.”

“We’re all heretics then,” he grumbled, downing the glass. “With the way they carry on about it, it’s a wonder they don’t try tearing us all away from our dæmons at birth.”

“Now you're talking nonsense.”

“Those brutes in Siberia do it, in the gulags. Surely even you’ve heard of it.”

“I have heard of it,” she said tersely. “I have also heard of the horrific pain those poor souls die in. It makes me sick just thinking about it.” Her face twisted, for the briefest of moments, into something horrified. “Could you even imagine?”

“It doesn’t always have to kill, though. I’ve heard whisperings of men in Lapland who can train themselves to separate entirely from their dæmons. They can walk away, for miles, even, and they don’t feel so much as a twinge of pain.”

Hélène’s hand tightened around her glass. “That’s ridiculous.”

But Pierre would not be dissuaded now that he had started off down this particular rabbit hole. “It’s not,” he insisted. “They say Napoleon was separated from his dæmon as a child. That’s why he doesn’t feel any fear on the battlefield. He doesn’t feel anything at all—there’s no emotion left in him.”

Hélène laughed dismissively as she topped off his glass. “I’m sure it was only gossip.”

“But it’s possible—plausible, even,” he said, and leaned forwards in his seat until the tray nearly toppled from his lap. Hélène reached out to take the decanter before it could spill onto the carpet. “There are metaphysicists in England and Germany who believe Dust can be severed— _safely_ severed—with an anbaric current. You’d need a highly-conductive metal as a blade, of course, but in theory it’s not all that far-fetched.”

“They're only rumors,” she snapped.

Pierre shook his head, and though he knew he would later regret it, took another gulp of tokay. “But it’s not. It would be simple enough process. I’ve researched it enough to know.”

Hélène’s lips parted in disgust.

“I suppose they'd have to set up different rooms. So, say, for example, they would put you in one and Dahanian in the other. They’d need some sort of containment field. Then they'd take a titanium-manganese blade and make a cut right down the middle. Like a guillotine. One on either end. It’s a clean cut. I don’t even think it would hurt.”

“Pierre, really, this is hardly—”

“It’s irreversible, though,” he added pensively. “You’d survive, but you’d never have your dæmon again.”

Hélène slammed her glass down onto the table and shot upright, Dahanian with her, their eyes burning furiously. Khione startled in the corner of the room.

“I do not wish to continue this conversation,” she said.

Pierre frowned. The warm sensation in his chest deadened and went cold, and the room seemed to go quiet. “I thought you’d be interested," he said dumbly.

“I am not,” she said, running her fingers down Dahanian’s back. “It’s upsetting and it doesn’t matter, anyhow.”

"I'm sorry."

“I should get my coat. I have to prepare for tonight”

“Lena, please—”

But it was too late. She had already left, slamming the door shut behind her. Pierre heard her footsteps marching all the way upstairs to their room. A dull, drunken pounding settled between his temples. Khione padded over to the back of the settee and dropped her head onto his shoulder with a heavy huff.

“What did I do?” he asked, and almost trod on his half-empty glass as he stood. “What did I say wrong?”

“Did you see the way she was holding onto Dahanian? You frightened her.”

“How?”

“With what you said.”

Pierre almost laughed at that. Frightened? Impossible. The Hélène he knew was stoic at best, heartless at worst. In all their time together, he had never seen her so much as shed a single tear.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Hélène isn’t frightened of a damn thing in this world.”

Khione snorted. “Of course she is. You just don’t see it. Or you choose not to.”

He sighed and pressed a hand to his forehead. “I didn’t want to upset her,” he said.

“You’ll just have to do better, then.”

Pierre thought of the shawl and the tokay, and then frowned. “I was trying to do better.”

“I don't think that's what she wants."

By now, the pounding in his head had intensified into something more dogged and painful that wasn’t entirely to do with the tokay. Pierre seized the decanter by its neck and poured out another glass. “Well, fuck it,” he growled. “I suppose I’ll never know what she wants.”

“Oh, Pierre,” said Khione, but she must have realized how pointless it was to argue, because she left him alone with his drink and curled up in the corner again without another word.

About an hour later, Hélène swept back down the stairwell in a flourish of green and gold, now dressed for the evening. Dahanian followed at her heels.

Pierre stumbled to his feet, leaning against the backrest of the settee for support. “Lena, I wanted to apologize—”

Hélène turned to the polished surface of the mantel to admire her reflection. She had thrown the shawl around her shoulders and tied it into an elegant knot at her sternum. “Let’s not speak of it anymore,” she said. “It’s in the past.”

Pierre bit his lip. “You’re ready awfully early. I didn’t think the opera started until late.”

“I like to arrive to these events at a reasonable time,” she said curtly.

With hesitation, he smoothed his hands over the wrinkles in his waistcoat. At least the mustard-yellow brocade hid the tokay stains well. He only hoped she wouldn’t be able to smell it on him.

“Shall I grab my coat then, darling?” he asked.

Hélène tutted in disapproval and clipped a string of pearls around her throat. “Look at yourself, Pierre. Do you honestly think you’re in any condition to be seen out in public?”

Pierre’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.

“Just as I thought,” she said. “No matter. Captain Dolokhov will escort me instead.”

He blinked. “Dolokhov? But why him?”

Hélène sighed. There was something cold and condescending in it, and her face shifted from disdain to pity. Of the two, Pierre wasn’t sure which stung more. “Because, Petrushka," she said, "I can at least depend on him to maintain a reasonable level of sobriety.”

“Hélène,” he began, but she had already turned on her heel and started down the hallway. Pierre clambered to his feet and stumbled after her. “Lena, darling, please just listen—”

“Countess Bezukhova,” called a maidservant from the front door. “Captain Dolokhov has arrived.”

Pierre furrowed his brow and caught himself against the wall as his legs began to fold traitorously. “But so soon? You asked him already?”

Hélène pulled the shawl a little tighter around her shoulders. Now she did not bother to face him. “Of course,” she said.

It was clear to Pierre that a sympathetic appeal would be a waste of time. Propriety, then, perhaps.

“What will the others think when they see that your escort is an unmarried man?” he asked.

“Don’t worry,” she said flatly. “I’ll invent some excuse. I have no desire for all of Moscow to know what a miserable drunkard my husband is.”

And with that, she took off down the corridor, Dahanian a silver shadow and her shawl fluttering out behind her.

* * *

 

Fedya Dolokhov had never been fond of waiting. You didn’t _wait_ in the military—things ran on a tight schedule, smooth and efficient as clockwork. Every second of the day was mapped out, planned, sealed in ink, until the bullets went flying and all hell broke loose. That Hélène saw fit to throw a proverbial wrench in his schedule grated on his nerves to no end. For a woman who so often complained of her brother’s lateness, she seemed to have, at best, a very tenuous grasp on time.

Samira, a large grey wolf, bristled restlessly at his feet. She wanted to pace, to run off, he knew—he could feel the urge prickling under his skin just as intensely as she must have. But they were in the company of high society, and as insufferable as she could be, the last thing he wanted to do was embarrass Hélène.

“How much longer can she take?” asked Samira.

Fedya shushed her quietly. “Patience, Sami.”

At last, the door swung open and Hélène stepped out onto the porch. “Captain Dolokhov,” she said.  

“Countess Bezukhova,” he replied, offering his arm, “radiant as always.”

Hélène smiled and fluttered her fan. Already a stunning woman under normal circumstances, now, with her curls pinned back at the crown of her head and a long string of pearls glittering at her throat, she looked every inch the perfect, high-society lady Fedya knew all too well she wasn’t.

“You flatter me,” she said.

Pierre appeared in the hallway behind Hélène with a confused look on his face. Fedya and Hélène turned to him on instinct.

“Captain Dolokhov,” he said. More an observation than a greeting.

“Pierre, old man,” Fedya said coolly. “I’m sorry to hear that you won’t be joining us tonight.”

Before Pierre could even open his mouth to protest, Hélène cut in with a sharp, “Dear Pierre has come down with a bout of the flu. We’ve agreed that a night of rest and recuperation is in order.”

Fedya cocked an eyebrow. He could see it instantly—the man was smashed drunk, and it showed, from the ungainly tilt of his posture to the rosy flush that had risen to his cheeks to the bunched wrinkles of his waistcoat, as if he had gone about a full week without bothering to change his clothes. Even Khione, lurking in the hall like a great looming shadow, swayed unsteadily on her feet.  

“You don’t need to escort my wife,” said Pierre. “I would hate to have to inconvenience you.”

It was truly incredible how a man so clearly intoxicated managed not to slur his words together into an indecipherable mess. Incredible, and just about the only thing he could respect in him.

Fedya shook his head. “It’s no trouble at all. She’s a charming woman.”

“See, Petrushka? What did I tell you? It’s fine," said Hélène.

“It’s not fine,” Pierre said, and despite the late-evening chill and the light dusting of snow that had begun to fall over the street, he stumbled out to the porch without so much as a jacket. “I’m her husband. This sort of thing is my duty.”

Hélène snapped her fan shut. “Pierre, darling, you really ought to go back inside. You’ll catch your death out here.”

“Ivan!” Pierre called into the doorway. “Fetch me my coat, would you?”

The young servant who had greeted Fedya at the gate appeared around the bend of the hallway. “You called, sir?”

“Absolutely not,” Hélène hissed. “ _I_ care about our reputation, even if you don’t.”

“My winter coat, Ivan. And my pocket-watch, if you can find it.”

Hélène slapped her folded-up fan against her hip and turned back to face Ivan as he strode towards the coat rack. “Make sure my husband stays at home to rest.”

“Hélène, really—”

“Madame?”

“And have the maid bring him some chicken soup for dinner.” Hélène turned back to Pierre with a sickly-sweet smile. “I do hope you feel better soon, husband.”

Fedya touched Hélène’s shoulder. “We should be off soon. The carriage is waiting.”

Pierre was clearly unsatisfied with this arrangement, but he seemed to have neither the energy nor the resolve to argue. “Very well,” he sighed, and hung his head as he stepped back into the doorway. “Enjoy the opera.”

Hélène smiled and kissed his cheek. “Of course. Try to get some rest.”

The door closed behind him with a quiet click.

Fedya sighed. _At long last_ , he thought, and they turned back down the pathway. It was only a short walk to the carriage, but even so, Hélène slid her arm through the crook of Fedya’s elbow before they had even made it to the street. He turned to her and squeezed her arm a little tighter.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Thank God you came when you did.”

Fedya rested his hand on the small of her back and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “We don’t have to go tonight, you know. My flat is near the theatre.”

Hélène unfurled her fan. “Tempting,” she said. “Unfortunately, I’m expected at tonight’s performance.”

“What a shame.”

“No matter.”

She waited until they had both seated themselves in the carriage, fully out of earshot, before saying, “I’m out of the house, all the same, and that’s what matters.”

There was no need for Fedya to lower his voice, but he did so anyway. Sheer force of habit, perhaps. “What was it this time?”

“Oh, just Pierre being his usual horrid self,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s remarkable how he manages to be so unpleasant even when he’s in a good mood.”

Though he tried to hide it, Fedya tensed. “Unpleasant, how?”

Hélène shook her head. “I know what you’re thinking. It wasn’t like that, I promise.”

Fedya relaxed, but only marginally.

She continued, “He was talking about experiments—for the war, I suppose, but God knows what he’s been reading. Do you know anything about them?”

“Experiments?”

“Separating people from their dæmons.” She shuddered and looked down at Dahanian, who had curled himself around her leg like a housecat. “It was absolutely vile. He has no tact, that man.”

Fedya couldn’t help the tremor of disgust that ran through him at that, and he felt Samira bristle nervously at his feet, though she tried to hide it. Some things were too revolting, too unnatural and grotesque to react with indifference. He had known that Pierre had some unusual interests, but they had never strayed too far from his odd fascinations with Kabbalah and numerology and the like.

But now this.

Hélène laughed dismissively as she ran her fingers through the tassels of her shawl. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

Fedya did not laugh.

“I mean, the very _idea_ that you could do something like that…I tried to tell him what a fool he was being, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Fedya stroked Samira’s fur and avoided Hélène's eyes.

She touched his arm. “You have a look on your face like you have something to hide. What is it, Fedya?”

He sighed. May as well get it over with, he reasoned, and bite the bullet before she weaseled it out of him anyway.

“There might be some truth to the rumors,” he said quietly.

Hélène went stiff in her seat. Had it not been for the rouge she had no doubt powdered her cheeks and lips with, her face would have been white. “So it’s true, then?”

Fedya found himself struggling for words. “In part,” he said, “though I don’t know how much of it was exaggeration. I heard talk of it in Persia, in the Shah’s army. And now they say the French are experimenting on prisoners of war.”

“Who did you hear these things from? Anna Pavlovna?”

“General Kutuzov,” he said. “He told us to make sure we weren’t captured.”

Hélène let out a nervous laugh, and her fan fluttered over her mouth. “You’re only joking,” she said, swatting his arm. “Tell me you’re joking, Fedya.”

Fedya’s eyes dipped to the floor, then veered to the window. “I wish I was,” he said after a long while.

Hélène sucked in a deep breath. Beside her, Dahanian went still. “I’m sure they’re still just rumors. If Pierre believes them, how credible could they be?”

Fedya allowed himself a smile at that. Of course she would find a way to rationalize things. It was in her nature. Nothing was ever too horrid or unnerving, not once you gave Hélène Bezukhova enough time to work out an explanation.

“That’s a fair enough point,” he said, nodding.

“It’s been a long time since you were at the front, anyhow.”

“It has.”

Hélène was quiet for a moment. Dahanian crawled into her lap, draping himself across the seat, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. “If Napoleon does come to Russia, do you think you and Anatole may be called out to service?”

Fedya furrowed his brow. Now there was something she couldn’t explain away. He had seen it bubbling beneath the surface of her mind for the past few weeks, lurking, always lurking. He couldn’t blame her—the prospect was driving him mad too.

“Let’s not talk of this anymore,” he said sternly. “We’re going to have a nice evening out at the opera, alright?” Hélène looked away and his frown deepened. He took her hand in his own, squeezing it, and tilted her chin up with his pointer finger. “Where’s my radiant Lenka?”

Hélène frowned. “But it could happen, couldn't it?”

 _It won’t_ , he wanted to say, _I know it won’t_ , but that would have been a lie, and Hélène could spot a lie from leagues away. Instead he sighed, running a hand through his hair, and said, “I would keep him safe. No matter what.”

Hélène nodded uncertainly. He could tell that she wasn’t convinced, but the carriage had already stopped at the steps of the Imperskiy Theatre and there was no time for further protest. She shot him a brilliant smile that was all pearly-white teeth and elegance and no sincerity whatsoever, and unfolded her fan as he helped her step out of the carriage and onto the street.

The front steps of the theatre bustled with the swell and din of the crowd, Muscovites milling about in their evening finery like a flock of colorful birds, their dæmons just as exotic and overwhelming. An assault on the eyes and ears in equal measure. Fedya almost balked at the sight of it, until Hélène looped her arm through the crook of his elbow, pressing against him more tightly than was proper, and said, “Come along, Fedyushka. We mustn’t be late. They’re waiting for us.”


	2. The Opera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha has an encounter at the opera, and sees something unseemly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support this fic has gotten so far!

Marya’s sense of taste had begun to go in her old age, and it was evident in the way she always brewed her tea a little too strong, with a little too much rum, but Natasha knew better than to decline her offer.

No sooner had the kettle come to a shrieking boil than Marya shepherded them down the front hall and towards the first door on the left, into the drawing room. It was cramped and stuffy, with doilies and trinkets and glossy little ornaments covering every available surface. In one corner on a side table, they saw a stack of Marya’s half-finished knitting projects tucked beneath a board game and a bundle of envelopes. Marya had them sit at the round parlor table by the window overlooking the street while the maids brought out trays of pastries and sandwiches sliced into triangles.

Natasha sipped at her tea as little as she possibly could without appearing rude. Sonya, on the other hand, set it aside after one scalding mouthful and quickly excused herself to go unpack.

Marya sighed and shook her head as Sonya scampered off down the hallway with Tobery pottering along after her.

“That girl,” she said to herself, a little too loud to be inconspicuous. “One would think she was raised in a barn.”

Natasha averted her eyes. Sonya had, in fact, been raised with Natasha since she was seven years old, but Marya always seemed determined to forget that in the face of Sonya’s many perceived misdeeds. But as much as it irked Natasha, talking back to Marya Dmitrievna was a surefire recipe for disaster, and she had no desire to land herself in trouble.

Instead, she mumbled a quiet assent and took another sip of tea.

Marya leaned back in her seat, one elbow propped up on the armrest and her other hand trailing through the feathers of Salman’s tail. “I must congratulate you on your engagement, Natalya,” she said, smiling proudly. “The whole town is abuzz over you and Andrei. You’ll be the handsomest match in all of Russia.”

Natasha looked down at her teacup as a hot flush came over her cheeks. “You’re too kind, Marya.”

The look on Marya’s face made it clear that she agreed. “Any man should consider himself lucky to be seen with you, dearest. And Andrei is such a lovely fellow, I’m sure you two will be very happy together. He’ll be the family’s saving grace, what with all the trouble your brother’s put us through.”

Natasha pressed her lips into a thin line. She couldn’t fault Marya for speaking less than fondly of Nikolai, foolish and reckless as he was, but it stung all the same. She was only grateful that Sonya wasn’t present to hear her fiancé insulted.

“I hope so,” she said quietly.

“Such a shame he was deployed. Have you heard from him at all?”

“I wrote him several weeks ago. I don’t know if he’s received any of my letters yet.”

“All in due time, my dear,” said Marya. She laid a comforting hand on Natasha’s shoulder. “I’m sure he misses you tremendously.”

“I know Andrei has family in Moscow. Could we visit them?”

Marya sighed. “I’m afraid Prince Bolkonsky’s health has declined as of recent. I don’t think it would be proper to pay them a visit at this time. Perhaps later, once he’s recovered.”

“I didn’t know,” Natasha murmured. “Andrei never speaks about his family.”

“I can’t say I blame him, the poor lad. The father’s not the most agreeable, and the sister’s an oddball. Very religious, I believe. I see her in church every Sunday, front pew. You’ll see them before the wedding, anyhow, I’ll see to that. It’s a sensible thing to meet the in-laws before you enter the family.”

“Of course.”

By now, the tea had gone cold. Natasha gently replaced her cup and saucer on the table and folded her hands in her lap. Adrastos fluttered over to her napkin to pick at the crusts of her sandwich.

“You look tired, dear,” Marya said. “A little peaky. Perhaps you ought to get some rest before tonight.”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly, “I’m fine, I just—”

“It’s quite alright, Natalya. You’re excused.”

“I’ll go join Sonya, then,” she said, rising from the table and dusting off her skirts. “I haven’t even begun to unpack. And I’ll have to dress for the opera, too.”

Marya nodded understandingly. “Of course, darling. Run along, now. I’ll call for you when it’s time to leave.”

* * *

 

There was a war going on out there somewhere, but you wouldn’t know it, looking at Moscow. Every street lamp seemed to burn with an inviting glow, and the air crackled with excitement.

Marya had ordered a carriage to take them to the opera, never mind that the theatre was well within walking distance of the house. “We’re traveling in style this evening,” she had said, and that had put an end to that. There were certain things you didn’t argue with Marya Dmitrievna about, and not even the Tsar himself could have swayed her once she had made up her mind.

The whole time, Natasha gazed out the window and thought of Andrei, so alone and so far away, and felt a momentary twinge of guilt. Where was he now? Somewhere cold and dark. Poland or Germany, perhaps. She tried hard to picture him as he was when she had last seen him—the stubborn slope of his nose, the sharp tilt of his brows, the sadness of his smile. Tired but handsome. Eulalia at his shoulder, a beautiful snowy owl, regal and utterly unflappable. Was he thinking of her too?

After a while, the carriage came to a screeching halt at the front steps of the Imperskiy Theatre.

“Here we are,” Marya said, and gathered up her skirts as the porters opened the doors to help them out. “Jump out quickly, girls.”

Natasha shivered as she stepped into the evening chill. Out front of the theatre, there was a great marble fountain thronged by a horde of stagecoaches, and a large crowd had gathered in the courtyard. They passed by a woman in an outrageous jeweled gown, just as resplendent in blues and greens and purples as her peacock dæmon. Another, draped in endless furs to match the Siberian lynx at her side. Soldiers in uniform jackets and spurred boots, swords jangling at their belts, their companions all canines of every variety—komondors, borzois, mastiffs, huskies, samoyeds, tamaskans. Golden capuchins and falcons perched on the shoulders of counts, corsac foxes and Persian leopards trotting alongside dukes, Amur hedgehogs and Manchurian hares nestled in the arms of princesses. And everywhere she looked—diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, pearls.  

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Natasha whispered to Adrastos, hoping that she wouldn’t be heard over the clamor of the crowd while Marya ushered them up the stairs with a firm but guiding hand.

The theatre was even more opulent from the inside. Red velvet, marble, satin brocade, and gold leaf as far as the eye could see. Natasha craned her neck as she took in the enormous crystal chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling like a glittering celestial body. It almost seemed close enough to touch. Not too much further off in the distance, she could hear the orchestra tuning up.

Natasha shook her head incredulously. How on earth could there be a war going on when there was such fun to be had here?

“Watch your step, Natalya,” Marya said firmly, and Natasha was startled back to reality by the sound of her voice.

From his perch on Marya’s shoulder, Salman suddenly bristled, his eyes wide and alert. It was clearly in response to the woman who had just walked into the theatre, draped over her companion in a way that wasn’t entirely appropriate. Her dæmon, a snow leopard with marble-blue eyes and a tail almost as long as he was, trailed closely at her side.

“Countess Bezukhova,” Marya said primly. She was polite enough to smile, a good enough actress to even sound pleasant, but it was clear to Natasha that her greeting was more perfunctory than genuine.

The woman nodded in acknowledgement and ran her fingers through the fur on her dæmon’s back. “It’s been too long, dear Marya,” she purred. Natasha was almost taken aback by the warm huskiness of her voice. “And, as I’ve said before, ‘Hélène’ is fine.”

“Countess Bezukhova,” Marya blithely repeated. “It’s nice to see you.”

Hélène gave Marya a tight smile and bowed her head. “And you, Marya. Especially with such lovely young girls.”

Natasha averted her gaze on instinct. The low cut of Hélène’s dress, her bare shoulders, the way the glittering double-string of pearls around her neck caught the lights of the chandelier and drew her eyes down and down and further still—it was too much.

“Countess Natalya Rostova,” she said, and even though it probably wasn’t necessary, dipped into a shy curtsy.

Hélène’s eyes were guarded, calculating, and Natasha could tell immediately that she was being evaluated. She seemed to pass whatever test Hélène had put forwards, because the older woman gave her a bright grin and said, “ _Enchantée_.”

Adrastos fluttered his wings nervously. Marya placed a hand on Natasha’s shoulder. “My goddaughter.”

“How lovely.” Hélène tilted her head to peer further down the aisle, to where Sonya lurked behind them like a timid little shadow with her hands clasped behind her back and Tobery pawing at the hem of her dress for attention. “And you, darling?”

Sonya’s eyes went wide. Marya turned to her and said, “Don’t be rude, Sofia. Introduce yourself.”

“Sofia Alexandrovna Rostova,” she murmured, keeping her eyes trained on the floor.

“Sisters?”

“Cousins,” Marya quickly amended. She shifted her focus to the uniformed man at Hélène’s side. “Captain Dolokhov.”

“Pleased to see you again, Madame Akhrosimova,” he said, and bowed with sarcastic flourish.

Natasha thought of Petya’s toy soldier figurines, lacquered and polished to gleaming perfection. Captain Dolokhov was neither polished nor gleaming, but he radiated a sort of regal confidence that even the drab olive of his uniform couldn’t dim. His jacket was obviously well cared-for, if a little faded, and his boots were in exceptional condition for their apparent age. And he was handsome too, at any rate, but there was something vaguely threatening in the way he carried himself, as if he were always no more than a moment away from drawing his pistol. Even now, with Hélène clinging to his arm, he regarded the opera house with the same calculated intensity that one would a battlefield. Alluring and unnerving in equal measure.

Dolokhov glanced up at Marya, clearly expecting her to offer him her hand to kiss. She did not; if anything, she looked even more disapproving than before and elected to ignore him in favor of Hélène.

“And where is your husband this evening, Countess?”

Hélène’s smile dimmed slightly. She unfurled her fan again. “Dear Pierre was feeling poorly and decided it would be best to stay home and recuperate. He sends his regards and apologizes for his absence.”

 _Pierre Bezukhov_.

It took Natasha a good few seconds to match the name with its corresponding face. Andrei had spoken fondly of Pierre, though she had only met him a scant few times, at balls and soirées and the like. She remembered him now—bespectacled, tall, stout, and a little sad-looking, with an entirely unmemorable face that was ironically the most memorable thing about him.

Dolokhov stepped forwards with a rakish grin and draped an arm around Hélène’s waist. “I’m stepping in for Pierre tonight.”

“I do hope we’ll see him again soon,” said Marya. “A man ought to escort his wife to these things.”

“I’ll tell him to call on you when he’s feeling better,” said Hélène.

“Please, do.”

“It was lovely to meet you,” Natasha murmured.

Hélène’s smile softened into something more genuine as she turned back to Natasha. “Likewise, my dear. _T’es vraiment une fille charmante_.”

Adrastos ruffled his feathers and cooed. Salman whipped his head around to stare him down. Hélène’s dæmon, meanwhile, curled the tufted end of his tail around her wrist, slinking against the seats with a smug purr.

“We should be off, now,” Dolokhov said. “Better get to our seats before they start without us.”

Hélène nodded and gave Marya another saccharine smile. “We’ll see you around sometime.”

And with that, they took off down the aisle arm-in-arm with their dæmons trailing at their heels.

“She seemed lovely,” Natasha said once they were sufficiently out of earshot.

Marya scoffed, as did Salman. “She’s not a woman to model your behavior off of, Natalya,” she said.

Natasha’s face burned hotly in embarrassment.

“That man—what was his name again?” asked Sonya.

“Fyodor Ivanovich Dolokhov,” Marya said drily. “They say he killed the Shah’s brother during his latest deployment to the Caucuses. The Moscow ladies have gone absolutely mad about him, of course.” She shot Natasha and Sonya a stern look. “I trust you two will have better judgement than that.”

“Imagine that,” said Sonya, and she shook her head with a disapproving titter. “Bringing an _assassin_ as your escort. My God, it must be true, then, what they say about—”

“We should get going too, or we’ll miss the curtain,” Marya cut in.

Sonya’s shoulders drooped. Marya promptly began to usher them up the stairs and to their seats in the box on the left side of the proscenium arch.

The girls settled into their respective chairs, their dæmons perched in their laps. From here, they could see almost all of the house as the rest of the crowd began to file into their places. A low guard railing arced between the ledge of the box and the open air. Natasha wondered, for a brief, harrowing moment, how easy it would be to lean forwards and topple out of the balcony.

Adrastos swelled in excitement as they peered over the railing. She could feel his deep, aching need to take off and fly away, out into the open, to hell with propriety and caution, but thankfully, he was polite enough to stay on her knee. He couldn’t have gone too far anyway, no matter how badly he wanted it, and not without her following.

Not for the first time, Natasha wished that she could take off in flight with him.

“Well, now that you’re settled, I suppose I’d better be off,” said Marya. “I’ll check in with you girls at intermission.”

Natasha frowned. “You’re not sitting with us?”

Marya laid a hand on her shoulder, clutching the hem of her shawl with one hand. “I’m afraid not, dear. The Drubetskoys want to say hello, and this is for the better. All eyes ought to be on you tonight.”

Marya took off down the stairwell. Natasha heard her whisper something to Salman, but her voice was too muffled to make out any words.

Then from the front of the theatre, they heard the conductor rap his baton against the podium, and the gas-lamps lining the walls dimmed.

Sonya leaned over across the armrest. “Smooth out your skirts,” she whispered. “The hem’s ridden up your leg.”

Natasha’s face went hot again and she hastily tugged her dress down, too embarrassed to stumble out a _thank you_.

Now the curtains began to rise. A great hush fell over the entire house and Natasha tipped forwards in her seat, vying for a closer view of the stage as the orchestra leapt into an explosive overture and the opera began.

* * *

 

It was almost halfway through the first act when the house doors swung open with a rush of cold air.

“Our boy’s here,” Fedya muttered under his breath.

Hélène snapped her fan shut. “Late. As always.”

“It wouldn’t be proper if he didn’t make an entrance.”

And what an entrance it was. Every pair of eyes in the theatre was on Anatole, tracking him as he all but waltzed down the aisle, as much a spectacle to watch as any of the performers onstage. Hélène knew better than to be surprised. Her little brother had always been prone to childish displays like this, had always lapped up the attention rained upon him by the crowds of opera houses and ballrooms and dinner parties. Whether or not it was a positive sort of attention didn’t seem to matter so long it was attention at all.

“I’m going to buy a pocket-watch and chain it to him if he keeps up like this,” she said to Fedya.

“Seconded.”

They watched in amusement as Anatole stopped to greet a young, pretty baroness, who giggled and shrank back in her seat. Her pheasant dæmon fluffed out his feathers. Fedya laughed as Anatole leaned forwards to kiss her cheek. Then he whispered something in her ear—God only knew what he said, but it made her blush a startling red and cover her mouth with her hand—and not a moment later, he had taken off down the aisle again.

Hélène leaned her head against Fedya’s shoulder with a look pointedly directed towards Anatole as if to say, _two can play at that game_.Fedya, ever quick on the uptake, wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed her temple.

At last, Anatole arrived in the box, a small, furry creature coiled around his neck like a stole. This was his dæmon, Danali, a little white ermine with a tail tufted in black. Her eyes lit up when she caught sight of Dahanian and Samira curled up against the railing, and she let out an excited squeak.

“Who was your friend in the front row?” Hélène said.

“No idea,” Anatole chuckled as he slid into the seat on Fedya’s left. “You lovebirds look awfully cozy. You didn’t think to wait for me?”

“Not when you took your sweet time getting here,” said Fedya.

Anatole reached across the seat to kiss Hélène’s cheek and slung an arm around Fedya’s shoulders. Had he moved any closer, he may just as well have been sitting in Fedya’s lap. “Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“And only an hour into the performance,” said Hélène.

“Well, it's not as if I'm missing out on anything. Unless they’ve added rewrites since last week.”

“Then why even bother coming?”

Anatole gave them an impish grin. “I wanted to see you.”

“You live with me, idiot.”

His grin broadened. “I wanted to see if Semenova would fall again.”

Fedya smirked, jostling Anatole’s knee with his own. “Now, there might be some truth to that.”

“Are you a betting man, dear brother?” said Hélène.

Anatole slid something thin and black out of his pocket. Hélène recognized it immediately as Pierre’s wallet. “Tonight, perhaps, sweet sister.”

“You little sneak,” she laughed.

“A scoundrel, an adulterer, and now a pickpocket,” said Fedya. “Some résumé you’re building, Tolya.”

Anatole scoffed. “Pickpocket?” he said, and it struck Hélène as both curious and comical that that was the only accusation he objected to. “Hardly. Not when the man leaves his things lying around so carelessly. One would almost think he wanted them to go missing. I’m only borrowing for the night, anyhow.”

Hélène rolled her eyes. “Just put it back before he notices it’s gone.”

Anatole pouted. “Spoil my fun.”

“Of course,” she said smoothly.

Dahanian purred in amusement. Samira did not look entertained in the slightest.

“What do you need Bezukhov’s money for anyway?” said Fedya.

Anatole leaned back in his seat. Danali scampered down his shoulder and curled around his forearm. “Steshka and Matryosha felt inclined towards champagne this afternoon. I felt inclined to indulge them.”

Hélène rolled her eyes again, disapprovingly this time instead of fondly. “You’re a fool.”

Anatole reached down and across the seats to run a hand through Dahanian’s fur. “Oh, Lena, don't be like that. It was only some harmless fun.”

Hélène sucked in a deep breath and turned to glare at him. "Not in public,” she hissed, swatting him on the shoulder with her folded-up fan.

Anatole tossed his head back with a careless laugh, but even so, he quickly withdrew his hand and Danali returned to her perch on his shoulder to drape herself around his neck. “We’re hardly in public. No one can see us here.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Fedya. He gestured across the house with his programme.

There in the box opposite, all but leaning headfirst over the banister, was a young girl staring at them, her mouth agape in scandalized horror.

“Natalya Rostova,” Hélène murmured. Were it not for the stark white of her dress, it would have been easy to miss her altogether. She wondered how Fedya had spotted her, and then how Natasha had caught sight of them, sequestered and curtained away in the darkness of the theatre. Had her eyes been following Hélène and Fedya since the start of the opera? Or was it Anatole who had drawn her attention?

Fedya shook his head. “You’re an idiot.”

“How much do you think she saw?” Anatole asked.

Hélène unfurled the fan across her mouth. She allowed it to flutter delicately, hoping that it would cover the heat rising in her cheeks. “If you pretend that nothing happened, then nothing happened. It’s as simple as that.” The fan snapped threateningly in Anatole’s direction. “And for God’s sake, Tolya, have a little propriety.”

“Well, she’s not staring anymore,” said Fedya.

And indeed, when Hélène looked again, just out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Natasha had buried her face in her programme, and her dæmon hovered at her shoulder in a nervous cloud of white feathers.

Anatole not-so-discreetly craned his neck to peer over the railing. “Isn’t she?”

Hélène slapped him again with her fan. “Stop looking,” she said. “Unless you want her to get nosy again.”

Dahanian yawned, seemingly in agreement, and rested his chin in Hélène’s lap. Anatole fell silent and sank back into his seat, bouncing his leg impatiently against the balcony railing and clearly making a concerted effort not to allow his eyes to wander back over to the box. Restless as always, but endearingly so. Hélène covered her smile with her fan.

A few moments later, the orchestra stilled to a screeching halt and the audience erupted into thunderous applause. They clapped along halfheartedly until Anatole sat up straight with his eyes trained on the stairwell.

Hélène reached across Fedya’s seat to hold his wrist. “Where are you going?” she said. “The act’s not over yet.”

Anatole blinked. Sure enough, the ovation quickly died down and the next number began, a sad, slow-moving dirge, and the theatre swelled with the drone of cellos and mourning baritones.

“But I thought—”

“I think our Tolya’s become a little distracted,” she said to Fedya, and gave Anatole’s hand a firm squeeze.

“How much longer till intermission?” he asked.

Fedya rolled his eyes. “Why so impatient?”

“There’s a pretty girl,” said Hélène.

“You're not serious.”

Anatole, seemingly having forgotten Hélène’s earlier words of warning, now leaned halfway out of his seat to stare at Natasha. “She’s beautiful,” he said. “Just stunning. Have you ever seen a lovelier girl in all of Moscow?”

“I’ve met your sister, haven’t I?” Fedya grumbled, and Hélène laughed.

If Anatole had heard Fedya’s remark over the din and clamor of the orchestra, which, given their proximity, he almost certainly had, he opted to ignore it. Instead, he continued to inch his way closer to the railing. “Perhaps I should approach her. Reintroduce myself.”

Hélène raised an eyebrow and tapped her fan against the armrest of her seat. “You haven’t met her before, have you?”

“It was a long time ago. I doubt she remembers me, but I’d recognize her anywhere.”

Hélène almost scoffed. It was truly an effort to resist the urge to remind Anatole that he hadn’t recognized Natasha, at least, not until she had been pointed out. But arguing with Anatole was just about as productive as attempting to squeeze an honest word out of Anna Pavlovna, which was to say, not at all. Better to humor him instead.

“Intermission,” she whispered. “Wait till intermission, and then you can approach her.”

Anatole nodded and sat back with his hands folded under his chin, one leg splayed out beneath the railing. Like a preening bird. Danali chittered excitedly at his shoulder. “I think that’s a good idea.”

“God help us all,” said Fedya, and the performers began to wail again.

* * *

 

It was dark in the study, as it always was, even with the kerosene lamp burning at full throttle. Pierre had tucked it onto the ledge of the windowsill in hopes of illumination, but the room remained stubbornly dim. After a while, he shoved his books aside. There was no point to it—the words had begun to float off the pages, swimming drunkenly in front of his eyes.

He turned instead to the bottle and tipped back another mouthful of vodka. It hardly burned anymore, but even so, he grimaced out of habit as it trickled down his throat.

Khione tilted her head disapprovingly. “Będwiec? Really?”

Pierre shrugged and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. What a sight he must have been. Stout and ruddy, ungainly in equal measure. Drunk, pathetic, laughable. No wonder Hélène hadn’t wanted him to come. “Why waste good liquor on miserable times?”

“You didn’t want to go,” she reminded him.

Pierre fell into a sullen silence. He knew he shouldn't have sulked, but Khione shouldn't have pried. Dæmon or not—some things were better off kept in your own head, left unspoken. “I don’t trust Dolokhov,” he said eventually, once words returned to him.

“Is it that you don’t trust him? Or is it that you don’t trust Hélène?”

“I have to trust Hélène,” he said with a bitter laugh. “I’m married to her, aren’t I?”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

Pierre stood up from his seat with such force that his hip almost overturned the inkwell balanced at the edge of the desk. “Can you honestly blame me?” he snapped, bracing one hand against the bookcase as the floor tipped and tilted beneath his feet. “You see the way she acts around _them_ when she thinks I’m not looking.”

“Pierre—”

“It’s no matter,” he said sharply. “She’s with him now. I don’t want to think about it.”

Khione fell silent for a long while, her gaze turned to the floor, and slumped back into a seated position on her rump. Her claws raked curlicues into the wooden boards. Almost for the first time, Pierre found himself not caring how Hélène would react once she saw.

“Do you still love her?” she asked quietly.

His shoulders deflated with a ragged sigh. Somthing painful and hard pressed against this throat, and he tried to swallow past it. “Of course I do. She’s my wife. How could I not? I love her so much it hurts.”

“Then why are you so upset?”

“Because I feel like I’m a disappointment to her,” he said. “I know that I’m not the kind of husband young girls dream about. I know this isn’t what she wanted. She won’t admit it, but I can see that much.”

The room began to spin around him in drunken circles. Khione too was beginning to feel the effects of the Będwiec, though she seemed less than willing to admit it. That was one of the few good things about dæmons, Pierre mused—anything you felt, they felt: joy, anguish, sobriety, and lack thereof.

“This is just a fucking mess, isn’t it?” he said, and collapsed back into his chair. “I’ll bet they didn’t even go to the opera.” He laughed at that, bitter and coarse. “‘Bet’. Can’t even do that, can I? Not without my wallet.”

“Oh, Pierre,” Khione sighed.

“Wonder where Anatole’s run off to now. I swear, I’ll wring that neck of his someday.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Pierre pressed his forehead to the desk with an apathetic groan. “‘F course I don’t,” he said. “Dolokhov, though—now there’s a man I wouldn’t feel too guilty about offing.”

“Pierre!”

“I mean it,” he snapped. “He’s ruining my life, the absolute prick. Making me the laughingstock of all Russia.”

“Hélène would never forgive you.”

“I don’t care. Wouldn’t make much of a difference either way, the way things are between us.”

“You could still fix them,” Khione said, with that same gentle yet stubborn patience he was so fond using on other people but detested when used on himself.

Pierre gritted his teeth. It was remarkable just how good his dæmon was at getting under his skin. Was he this infuriating to speak to? No wonder Hélène hated him. Even less of a wonder that she had chosen Dolokhov over him. Dolokhov may have been coarse and rude, but he was also charming and handsome and brave—everything Pierre _wasn’t_.  

“I don’t want to fix things,” he said, and with that, it was if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “Why should I? Has _she_ ever tried to fix things?”

“Well, she married you, didn’t she?”

“But for what? My money? My rank? It wasn’t for _me_ , Khione, and you know that. I’ve tried to love her, I really have, but she makes it _impossible_ —”

Pierre froze in mid-sentence, for his grip on the bottle had grown so tight that it had shattered. Shards of broken glass scattered all over the desktop. Vodka began to pour over his papers and books. Already, a puddle had formed at his feet.

This was Hélène’s fault, somehow. Her fault mocking him, for riling him up, for making him so damn furious he lost all common sense.

“You still care about her,” Khione said calmly. “Whatever she’s done to you. You can’t stop caring about her.”

“Never mind that. I don’t want to think of it anymore,” he said stiffly, and returned to his vodka without another word.

* * *

 

The opera may just as well have been in French, Natasha could understand so little. She watched in dazed confusion as a whirlwind of color and light unfurled on the stage, grotesque and amazing and utterly incomprehensible.

And then, out of the corner of her eye, in the box at the other end of the proscenium arch she saw a flicker of movement. Nothing spectacular, but enough to divert her attention from the stage. There sat Hélène and Dolokhov, beautiful and regal, and next to them, the man who had walked in an hour late. She watched as he slid into his seat and leaned over to chat with Hélène.

Suddenly his hand dipped low, too low, and ruffled her dæmon’s fur with an air of affected casualness. Natasha sucked in a horrified breath and leaned back in her seat.

Touching someone else's dæmon. How vile, how repellent. People didn’t _do_ things like that. Surely her eyes must have been playing tricks on her. It was late, she was tired and confused, and she was seeing things. Surely.

But then Adrastos fluttered by her ear and whispered, “Did you see that too?”

Natasha immediately averted her gaze. It was rude enough, talking to your dæmon in public, but to be caught staring somewhere she clearly was not supposed to be staring was somehow even worse. She wished for a moment that Adrastos had not yet settled, that he could still shift into a moth or something dark and unnoticeable so as to blend into the dimly-lit gloom of the box.

Instead, she waved him down with a quick, “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“It wasn’t _nothing_ ,” he insisted, alighting on the guard railing. “They were breaking the taboo.”

Natasha sat up a little straighter in her seat. The orchestra was loud enough that she didn’t need to worry about lowering her voice, but she did so anyway. “Perhaps things are different in the city.”

“Still. It isn’t right.”

“Maybe I was just seeing things, then,” she said quietly.

Adrastos ruffled his feathers. “It’s possible. It’s also possible that you saw something else.”

“Just a trick of the light. It’s dark in here, anyhow.” She turned back to the box for just a moment, only to see that its occupants and their respective dæmons now sat a respectable distance apart. “See? Didn’t I tell you?”

“Stop staring at them,” he hissed. “I’ll bet they only caught you gawking and panicked.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. They can’t see me here.”

As if in demonstration, she pointed to the stranger. Natasha had expected his attention to be raptly focused on the stage just like the rest of the audience, but when she turned back to face him, their eyes locked.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, and immediately looked away with her hand clapped over her mouth.

Adrastos fluttered over to land on her wrist. “What is it?”

Natasha did not remove the hand, only nodded in the direction of the box and whispered, “He saw me, Adrastos. He was looking at me.”

“What did I tell you? If you keep staring—”

“Oh, hush, you silly thing. This was different.”

“There’s nothing wrong with looking,” Adrastos said stubbornly. “Why shouldn’t you?”

“It’s rude,” Natasha muttered under her breath.

“No ruder than him looking at you. You have nothing to be embarrassed about, Tasha.”

Now she met the stranger’s gaze boldly. Though it wasn’t necessary from such a distance, he covered his mouth with his programme and leaned over to whisper in Dolokhov’s ear, keeping his eyes trained on her all the while. Dolokhov laughed and then turned to Hélène, clearly to repeat whatever it was that he had told him.

Natasha felt her pulse thrumming wildly in her throat. Some sort of acknowledgement had passed between them, her and these three beautiful strangers. She wanted to reach out and touch them, but they were so distant, so impossibly far away…

From across the armrest, Sonya reached over to brush her hand against Natasha’s. “This is absolutely garish,” she said through a grimace.

Natasha’s heart leapt into her throat. Had Sonya caught her eyes, followed her gaze to the box opposite? Had she seen them—Captain Dolokhov and Countess Bezukhova and the other man? Even worse—had she noticed Natasha staring?

“What?” she said.

“The opera, of course,” said Sonya, and Natasha’s shoulders went slack with relief. “Is this what city folk do for entertainment?”

Natasha shrugged. She couldn’t say that she was enjoying the whole production, but it was entertaining all the same.

Still, not nearly as interesting as the occupants of the box on the opposite side of the theatre.

“It’s not terrible,” she offered. “It’s certainly… _avant-garde_.”

The French tasted awkward and unfamiliar in her mouth, but it made her feel sophisticated and mature. No longer a simple country girl, but a true Moscow lady. She thought of Hélène and almost smiled.

Sonya did not look impressed. “I’m going outside for a breath of fresh air,” she said as she gathered up her skirts. “If I’m not back by the time intermission ends, it’s on purpose.”

Tobery let out an impatient mewl as he clambered from her lap onto the carpet. Sonya rolled her eyes and scooped him into her arms, draping his front paws over her shoulder, and marched out of the box. For the first time in what felt like forever, Natasha was alone.

A few minutes later, the door opened again.

“Countess Rostova,” called a smooth voice.

Natasha’s head snapped up. Her breath caught in her throat as she took in the sight before her. The man from the box, the one who had touched Hélène’s dæmon, stood in the doorway.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured demurely. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced?”

“We’ve met before. A ball, several ago. The Naryshkin’s.” He bowed with a dazzling grin. “Prince Anatole Kuragin.”

“Countess Natalya Rostova,” she said, and allowed him to kiss her hand. “You already knew that, though, didn’t you?”

Anatole chuckled. “What’s a reintroduction between old friends?”

It was then that Natasha noticed Anatole’s dæmon—a white ermine, her lithe, lovely little body curled around his neck like a stole. “This is Danali,” he said.

Natasha gestured to Adrastos, who had settled himself in her hair. “Adrastos.”

“A dove?” Natasha nodded, and Anatole smiled knowingly. “How fitting.”

“Oh?”

“He’s lovely. Almost as lovely as you.”

Natasha blushed all the way to the roots of her hair. “You’re too kind,” she said, staring at her shoes. It suddenly seemed impossible to meet his gaze. She would burn up, surely, or melt into a puddle right where she stood.

Then Anatole shifted to stand closer to her and Danali climbed down his arm until she came to perch at the crook of his wrist, and Natasha’s face burned even hotter. “Not kind. Just honest.”

“Why not both?” she offered.

Anatole laughed, bell-like and ringing, and her heart began to race even faster. “Witty too. How charming.”

Now it was Natasha who laughed. If the Moscow ladies were mad about Fyodor Dolokhov, then they must have been absolutely raving about Anatole Kuragin. She wouldn’t have blamed them. He was handsome from afar, certainly, but even more so up close, with his pale, angular face and charming grin. Just as handsome, even, as Andrei—soft where Andrei was sharp, bright and joyful where Andrei was stern, youthful where Andrei was sophisticated.

“I think they’re starting again,” she murmured before her eyes could drift any further.

Sure enough, not a moment later the curtain rose again and the orchestra leapt into action as the third act began. Natasha sat back in her seat, expecting Anatole to do the same, but instead he remained at the edge of the balcony with his elbows propped up against the railing and his legs stretched out behind him as casually as if he were in his own home. Even though she knew he couldn’t see her, it felt improper to stare at him like this. But not as improper as it was irresistible, and before she knew what was happening, she had drifted over to stand next to him, so close that their shoulders almost touched.

Anatole leaned over with a smirk. “There’s Semenova,” he said, pointing to one of the performers, the one standing precariously close to the edge of the stage as her aria neared a crescendo. “Last week she fell off the stage during her solo. Shall we see if she can keep her balance this time?”

Natasha covered her mouth with her programme to stifle a snort. Anatole chuckled and moved slightly closer until their hands bumped. She startled and turned to face him again, but his eyes were still locked on the stage. As if he hardly noticed her staring. So close, she could have counted each individual eyelash.

Against both her will and her better judgement, she found herself overcome with the inexplicable urge to touch his face. It would be so easy. All she had to do was raise her hand, move just one step to the left, and her fingertips would brush against his cheek. Would it startle him? Would he welcome it?

“How do you like Moscow?” she asked instead.

He smiled. “Shouldn’t I be asking you?”

“One evening isn’t all that much time to form an impression,” said Natasha, “but I do like what I’ve seen so far.”

“It can be a dull city,” Anatole said. “Although I’m sure your presence will improve it.”

Natasha laughed again, suddenly all too aware of how the cut of her dress bared her arms and shoulders. She wasn’t used to feeling this exposed, certainly not around men, and certainly not men as cavalier as Anatole. Andrei had always been colder to the touch, aloof even.

But Anatole wasn’t Andrei.

She luxuriated in the power she seemed to have over him, the way his eyes tracked her every movement, as if she had him under some sort of spell. It felt thrilling in a way that she had never allowed herself to feel with Andrei, and she inched further along the railing, closer to him. Now they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, alone in the box and so very close, and no one else could see them here. Natasha found her heart racing quicker with every second. She wondered, flushing a deep red, how easy it would be for him to grab her around the waist and kiss her.

Then at his wrist, she saw a flicker of white fur, and Natasha realized with a moment of heart-stopping horror how close she had come to accidentally touching Danali. She quickly drew her hand away, shrinking in on herself.

Anatole was none the wiser, or perhaps he had noticed and simply didn’t care. She thought back to what she had seen—what she had _thought_ she had seen—in the darkness of the box across the theatre, and her face grew even hotter. Was this normal to him? Or was she frightening herself over nothing?

Over the railing, she caught a glimpse of an imposing red-haired figure marching along the aisle that led to the stairwell. Natasha tugged on the sleeve of Anatole’s jacket.

“That’s my godmother,” she whispered. “I think you had best leave.”

Anatole smiled politely. “Such a shame,” he said. “I was enjoying your company. Very well, then. _À plus tard, ma chérie_. Until the next time I see you.”

“It was lovely to meet you.”

Their fingers brushed together, only for a moment. Natasha pulled her hand back instinctively, but Anatole grabbed her wrist. He bowed, and then pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “The pleasure is all mine.”

Anatole’s dæmon curled herself around his collar again, nestling her head at the hollow of his throat as he left the way he came. The lovely white of her coat was almost invisible, overlaid against the silver of his jacket. If Natasha squinted, it would have been easy to miss her altogether.

Once it was all over, after the performers had made their bows and the curtains had fallen, Marya ushered them down the stairwell and into the foyer. It seemed to Natasha that the entire audience had gathered here, milling about in rapt discussion, lorgnettes and wine glasses glinting in the dazzling swell of the crowd as they gossiped and laughed and waited for the carriages to arrive.

Everyone, of course, except Dolokhov, Hélène, and Anatole.

“What did you girls think?” Marya asked as they made her way to the front doors. There was no need to shoulder or hustle with Marya—wherever she looked, wherever she stepped, the crowd parted before her to form a pathway.

Sonya wrinkled her nose and fanned herself with her programme. Despite the blustery chill of the foyer, her cheeks were flushed a dark pink, as they always were when she was frustrated or upset. “It was dreadful,” she said stiffly.

Marya chuckled. “It can be hard to understand. Especially for a first-timer. And you, Natalya?”

It still seemed like the ghost of Anatole’s hand was still pressed to her wrist. Perhaps if she searched the crowd closely enough, she would spot him again.

Natasha nodded as a faint smile curled the corner of her mouth. “It was interesting,” she said. “I quite enjoyed it.”

Marya looked pleased. Salman even more so. “Well, I suppose some people acclimate more readily. Now, come, girls. The carriage will be waiting.”

And with a sweep of her shawl, they were off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! We <3 comments and kudos (pls give them 2 us)!!


	3. Tokay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hélène, Anatole and Fedya unwind after a night out. Pierre confronts an unwelcome guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fedya, Anatole, Hélène and Pierre are each a Lot, in distinctly different ways. 
> 
> This chapter contains references to some NSFW-ish stuff and infidelity.

It was still snowing by the time they arrived at Pierre's house. Hélène waited until Anatole and Fedya had stepped out of the carriage before allowing Fedya to help her out. She took care not to allow the hem of her dress to trail against the street as they made their way to the porch. The stairs were usually kept clean, but now they were muddied with footprints—Fedya’s and Samira’s, no doubt.

The butler opened the front door for them. Once they were inside, after he had gathered their coats and taken off to the cloakroom, Hélène turned to the others and said, “Keep your voices down. I don’t want to disturb Pierre.”

“And where _is_ dear Pierre?” asked Anatole.

“Asleep, no doubt," said Hélène. "If he hasn’t locked himself in his study to drink.”

“One would almost think he was avoiding you, Lena," said Fedya.

Hélène straightened her pearls in the mirror. “Don’t be rude.”

“Telling Fyodor Dolokhov to not be rude is like ordering Russia not to snow,” said Anatole. “It just doesn’t work.”

It was at this point that Samira proceeded to shake off the remaining moisture that clung to her fur, scattering half-melted snow across the threshold.

Hélène sighed. “Please, not in the house. Pierre will complain if the carpets get wet.”

Fedya raised an eyebrow. “He’s hardly around enough to notice.”

“ _I_ will complain, then. How does that sound?”

He shook his head, laughing, and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “My chances of placating you are better.”

“What a charmer.”

With that last statement still hanging in the air, Fedya walked into the parlor and sank into the chair closest to the door. He immediately pulled out his pocketknife and set to work polishing the blade on the hem of his uniform jacket. Samira lay down at his feet.  

Hélène wrinkled her nose. “Put that horrid thing away.”

“I am a soldier,” he said flatly. “Soldiers keep their weapons clean.”

“You can clean it somewhere other than my sitting room.”

“ _Pierre’s_ sitting room,” Anatole said, and Hélène lightly cuffed him upside the head.

“Don’t be a brat.”

“I can’t help it. It’s in my nature.”

“Just as it’s in my nature to keep my weapons clean,” said Fedya.

Samira laughed. Dahanian scoffed.  

“You’re both absolutely insufferable,” Hélène said. “I should leave you to go to the bars and your whorehouses.”

“With Pierre’s money?” chuckled Anatole.

Hélène smacked him again. “You’ll send him into hysterics if you keep that up, you idiot,” she said. “It’s no wonder Papa got sick of dipping into his pockets to feed your indulgences.”

He shrugged. “A life without indulgences is a life not worth living.”

This, Hélène supposed, must have been his new favorite saying of the week. She passingly wondered where he had heard it—and he had heard it somewhere, that much was sure. Anatole may have been many things, but inventive was decidedly not one of them.

“Such a poet,” said Fedya.

Anatole smiled dreamily as he leaned back against the banister with only one arm in his jacket sleeve. “Aren’t I just?”

“You look like a fool,” Hélène said, and ruffled her brother’s hair with the hand that wasn’t toying with her pearls. “And now you’re talking like one too. What’s gotten into your head?”

“Natalya Rostova,” he sighed.

Fedya gave a low whistle. “That snoopy chit of a girl from the opera?”

“Well, I approve,” said Hélène. She strode across the room to the tea table, where the decanter of tokay and the glasses had been left to gather dust. “She seemed charming. Far too wide-eyed, though.”

“That’s an easy enough fix,” said Anatole.

“You’d best be careful,” Fedya said, examining his reflection in the knife blade. “That’s Marya Dmitrievna’s goddaughter you’ve got your eye on.”

Anatole rolled his eyes and tossed his jacket over the side of the sofa. He was always doing that, Hélène mused—leaving his things everywhere as if this were his own house, as if he were more than a guest here. “I’m not afraid of Marya Dmitrievna.”

“You should be. I hear she keeps a pistol in her dresser.”

Fedya only meant it in jest, but it didn’t escape Hélène’s notice how Anatole stiffened nervously. The poor, darling idiot. It was easy sometimes to forget that there was not very much at all beneath his veneer of bravado and charm. Anatole may have been a fearsome opponent at a soirée or the opera, but he must have been an absolute disgrace on the battlefield.

Hélène smiled, sank into the seat to the left of Fedya with the tray balanced in her lap, and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Toto,” she said teasingly, pinching Anatole’s cheek. “We’ll protect you from _le terrible dragon_.”

Danali chittered indignantly at Hélène and wrapped herself around Anatole’s neck. He stroked her fur pensively. “And that horrible dæmon of hers.”

Fedya raised an eyebrow. “If I were you, I’d be more wary of her than the dæmon.”

Hélène grinned as she ran her fingers along the silver streaks in Fedya’s beard. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of her too, Fedyushka.”

Fedya pocketed the knife and leaned into Hélène’s touch. Even through the coarse fabric of his uniform, she could feel his body heat. It warmed her to the core. “There’s a difference between being afraid and being sensible,” he said.

The cushions shifted beneath them as Anatole, now jacketless, seated himself on Fedya’s right. “Since when are you sensible?”

“Hardly ever,” he said, tousling Anatole’s hair. “Especially when you’re involved.”

Hélène rolled her eyes. Fedya’s hand, the one that was not rubbing lazy circles into her shoulder, came to a rest on Anatole’s knee. The three of them sat together in a languid silence, watching the flickering, honeyed glow of the gas-lamps on the walls and the crackling of the fireplace as its lights died down. Dahanian curled himself at Hélène’s feet, allowing his tail to brush against their ankles.  

After a long while, Fedya tipped his head towards the ceiling and said, “I wonder what time it is.”

“Late,” Hélène sighed. "Pierre’s probably gone to bed.”

“If he hasn’t fallen asleep at his desk,” said Anatole. Danali, at his shoulder, let out an amused chirp. “Why do you care?”

“Because he is my husband.”

“My question still stands.”

Hélène’s face went flat. “Because I would like to see as little of him as possible tonight.”

“In that case, you may as well have stayed at the theatre,” said Fedya, and he stretched his legs out under the tea table, not caring even as the heels of his boots scuffed against the floorboards and then the rug. “Or come back to my apartment.”

“Pierre isn’t that oblivious.”

“Are you sure about that?” said Anatole.

“He’s dead to the world, either way,” Fedya said. “I doubt he’d notice if Napoleon himself stormed down the front door.”

“In that case, I’ll go fetch us a few drinks,” Hélène announced.

By the time she came back into the parlor, Anatole and Fedya had moved even closer together, until Anatole was practically sitting in Fedya’s lap, Samira at their heels. Hélène pouted and sank down next to Fedya, stretching her legs out over both of them, and said, “I feel extremely excluded.”

Fedya only laughed and slid an arm around both of their waists. Hélène balanced the tray in one hand. Not tokay anymore but vodka.

“Have a drink,” she said, handing them a glass each.

They didn’t need to be told twice.

The vodka went down like a rush of fire. It burned her throat, but it was the good kind of burn, the kind that made the room sharpen and then blur, made her skin buzz with a pleasant warmth, made the pounding between her temples recede to something tolerable. It wasn’t enough for any of them to be drunk, but it was enough that they weren’t entirely sober either.

“Have another shot, Lena,” Anatole said. “You look like you need it.”

Hélène frowned. “Don’t be mean.”

“He’s not,” Fedya said as he drained his glass. “We all could do with a little more vodka.”

“Greedy bastards,” she chided, but even so, poured out another generous round that went down even hotter and headier than the first.

Fedya grinned, predatory and victorious, and leaned forwards to nip her bottom lip. Hélène reciprocated with full force and snarled her hand in his hair. Somewhere in the background, she could hear Anatole laughing. He sounded tinny and muffled, as if she were listening from underwater.

Then, through the din and haze, there came the slow, sinking realization that she shouldn’t have been doing this. They were in the sitting room in full view of the window, and had anyone walked through the door, they would have seen everything—her and Fedya in passionate embrace, Fedya’s hand roaming far too freely, his other gripping Anatole’s knee and slowly creeping higher, Samira and Dahanian growling playfully at their feet.

But Fedya was so warm and the room was so cold and it was late and it was dark and there was vodka and Anatole was laughing and there was nobody coming to disturb them and, if only for a moment, all was right in the world.

 _Perhaps Tolya is right_ , she thought, grinning into the kiss as Fedya pressed even closer. _A life without indulgences is a life not worth living._

There was lipstick smeared across Fedya’s mouth when she finally pulled away. Hélène laughed. She wanted to kiss him again, wanted to leave another mark to accompany the first.

“As pleasant as this diversion has been,” he murmured, his eyes half-lidded and focused on her lips, “should we consider moving else—?”

The door swung open unannounced and slammed into the side table with a tremendous bang that made them all startle. Hélène flushed a dark red, immediately removed herself from Fedya’s lap, and slid to the other end of the couch. Anatole was slower, and he bumped his hip against the corner of the table as Fedya stood and dislodged him from his seat.

In the doorway stood Pierre, looking even more disoriented and disarrayed than he had when she had left for the opera. His spectacles were askew and he was still wearing his stained waistcoat, but he had kicked off his shoes and replaced them with slippers.

Hélène barely paused for a second to recollect herself. “Ah, dear husband,” she said as she strode across the room to plant a kiss on his cheek. That she had been in an ostensibly compromising position with another man didn’t seem to bother Pierre, who appeared too drunk to form any proper thought besides confusion.

“Have you recovered from your bout of flu?” asked Fedya. He held a hand over his mouth. Hélène strongly suspected that it was to wipe away the lipstick she had left there.

Pierre blinked. “Flu?”

“The flu that kept you from attending tonight, of course,” she said drily.

Pierre pushed his spectacles up the bridge his nose and began to fiddle with the buttons on his waistcoat. Even in his own sitting room, he had all the presence of an unexpected and vaguely unwanted houseguest. Khione was no less ungainly with her bumbling girth, but she at least had the decency to remain in the hallway. Not long ago, the very sight of them so painfully awkward and out-of-place would have almost been enough to send Hélène into a blind rage. That she had since learned to put a hold on her temper didn’t lessen her frustration.

“Oh,” he said, “well, I _am_ feeling considerably better, Fyodor. Thank you.”

“I do hope we didn’t wake you,” Anatole said in a tone that indicated he was asking more out of custom than concern.

“No, no, I was studying.”

Hélène and Fedya exchanged knowing looks. “Well we’d hate to interrupt you with our chatter,” she said finally. “We’ll move upstairs.”

“It’s rather late, isn’t it?” Pierre gestured to one of the windows where the curtains had not yet been drawn and the darkness of the streets filtered in. He turned to Fedya. “I can send for a carriage to bring you home.”

“Fedya will be spending the night,” Hélène said with a sickly sweet smile. Pierre frowned at the pointed lack of an _if it’s alright with you_.

Fedya nodded, half-smirking. He hadn’t been especially thorough in his cleaning, and there was still a smudge of rouge at the corner of his mouth. “I thank you for your generosity. You and your wife, both.”

If Pierre noticed the glasses splayed across the table or the tray generously laden with vodka, he didn’t mention it. Though he did seem coherent enough to furrow his brow and say, “ _Why_ is he spending the night?”

“I wanted to entertain and we lost track of the time,” Hélène said smoothly. “It’s no worry. He can stay in the spare bedroom.”

Pierre did not look convinced, but neither did he seem like he wanted to press the matter any further. He let out a heavy sigh and said, “Very well. I trust you will be comfortable with this arrangement, Fyodor?”

“Very.”

Hélène smiled again. It was a well-practiced smile, if a little worn-down and tired around the edges.

Pierre offered her his hand. “Let’s get to bed, Hélène.”

She laughed at that, high-pitched and girlish and mocking. “Already? But we’re having such _fun_ , Petrushka.”

Pierre’s expression deadened. “It’s late,” he said testily. “In fact, it’s so late that it’s no longer late but early.”

“You can always go to bed on your own if you’re tired.”

“Is it so much to ask that I might like to sleep beside my wife every once in a while?”

Fedya and Anatole snickered.

“Oh,  _really_ , Pierre—”

“I am in no mood to argue,” he said.

Hélène raised an eyebrow. “Neither am I.”

From behind the tea table, closer to the fireplace than was probably comfortable, Khione bristled irritably and seemed to grow a good three feet or so in height. Pierre took a step towards Hélène, but Dahanian was quicker, and he moved to stand in between them. Hélène placed a hand on Dahanian’s shoulder blades. The muscles of his back rippled and tensed beneath her touch, like a viper poised to spring.

Pierre frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“We're tired,” she said. “It’s been a long night.”

When he reached out to touch her shoulder, the fur along Dahanian’s back stood on end, and he bared his teeth in a snarl. Pierre took a startled step backwards. “Will you please tell him to stand down?”

“I don’t control him,” Hélène deadpanned. “He only takes orders from himself.”

“You’re being obtuse.”

“I could say the same of you.”

“This is ridiculous,” Pierre sighed. He made a move to take Hélène’s hand but missed and instead grabbed her wrist, and Samira leapt from her seat at the foot of the sofa. Fedya too stood up sharply.

“I don’t think the lady wants to go with you,” he said.

Hélène scowled. _The lady_. What nerve. Who did he think he was? Who did he think _she_ was?

“I don’t believe this is any of your concern, Fyodor,” Pierre said curtly.

In the corner of the room, Anatole murmured, “Oh dear,” and shrank back into the sofa cushions.

“Don’t speak for me, Pierre,” Hélène said sharply.

And then Fedya laid a hand on her shoulder, heavy and possessive. She was tempted for a moment to brush him off, until she remembered the other hand on her wrist and decided against it.

“Just go upstairs, Bezukhov,” he said coolly. “Leave us be.”

Samira growled. Hélène saw danger in the way she raised her hackles, the way she flattened her ears against her head and tucked her tail between her legs. Danali must have sensed it too, because she scampered down the length of Anatole’s arm and wrapped herself protectively around his wrist. As if she could protect him at all, the idiotic little thing. Hélène almost laughed despite herself.

“Let’s not get carried away, now,” Anatole said.

“This does not concern you,” she snapped, and Danali shrank back into the fold of his sleeve.

“ _Hélène—_ ”

“Nor you, Fyodor,” Pierre cut in.

Hélène stiffened. “I would thank you kindly, Pierre,” she said slowly, “to not speak rudely to my guest.”

Khione barked out a harsh-sounding grunt at that, and Dahanian hissed in response.

“Then tell him to stand down.”

“She’s already told you that she can’t,” said Fedya.

Khione redirected her attention towards Fedya just as Pierre did. Fedya’s eyes flashed dangerously, but his face had gone blank and cold. Hélène recognized that look. She had seen what ensued when Fyodor Ivanovich was angry and looking for a fight.

And he was looking for a fight, that was for sure. Even stony-faced, he couldn’t hide the way his hands began to twitch at his sides, his fingers curling as he instinctively reached for the pistol that wasn’t there, and Hélène thanked whatever divine powers there may have been that she had had the wherewithal to insist that he leave it at his flat before picking her up. But then her stomach dropped as she remembered the knife in his pocket, and because she was more sensible than she was prideful, more afraid of Fedya’s temper than Pierre’s, she lowered her hands and said, “I apologize. Let’s not argue tonight.”

Pierre seemed genuinely surprised. Fedya even more so.

“Lena, you don’t have to do this,” he said softly.

Hélène gave him a sharp look and said, “Enough, Fyodor.” She turned to Pierre, forced herself to smile, and offered him her hand. “Shall we go to bed, husband?”

Pierre floundered for a moment, before taking her hand and nodding.

“Wonderful,” she said flatly. She nodded to Anatole and Fedya. “Goodnight. I’ll see you two in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Lena,” Anatole echoed.

The room became very still and silent. Hélène dusted off her skirts and ran her fingers through her pearls, almost like a nervous tic.

“I suppose I’ll be seeing you two tomorrow?” said Pierre.

Anatole fell silent and busied himself with the hem of his sleeve. Hélène could feel Fedya’s eyes burning two holes in the back of her skull.

“Unfortunately, I’m sure we could say the same of you,” she heard him mutter.

Pierre frowned, vaguely offended by that but clearly unsure of how to respond. Fedya scoffed as they swept past them. Khione caught her foot on the runner on her way up and almost fell over. It was pathetic and comical all at once, and Hélène wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry as she made her way upstairs.

* * *

 

Anatole’s head was pounding.

This was unusual for a number of reasons, the first being that he had hardly drunk enough vodka to even be considered drunk, and the second being that even when he was drunk or hungover, he had never been prone to headaches. But there it was, growing louder and more insistent with each second.

Anatole sat upright so quickly it made his head spin, and Danali let out an irritated chirp. No, that wasn’t the pounding of a hangover, he realized—it was footsteps.

Hélène opened the door slowly and followed Dahanian into the room. She had unpinned her hair, thrown on a dressing gown and a pair of silk slippers. As if she had just rolled out of bed and then, without pausing for even a second to collect herself, made her way downstairs.

“Where’s Fedya?” she asked.

“Gone to the bath,” said Anatole. “I think he may’ve gotten lost down the drain, he’s taking so long in there.”

Hélène rolled her eyes and pulled the sash of her dressing gown a little tighter.

“Did the old man finally fall asleep?”

“Took him long enough,” she grumbled. “He usually dozes off a lot quicker when he’s drunk.”

Anatole sighed and leaned back against the settee until his head almost dangled upside-down. “Ah, well,” he said, smiling, “you’re here now; that’s the main thing.” He patted the cushion next to him invitingly. Danali crawled out of his sleeve to splay herself across the armrest. “Come. Sit with me. It’s been ages since we last spoke together alone.”

“I’m not staying.”

“Oh?”

Hélène gave him a tired smile and leaned down, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “I don’t want to see Fedya right now.”

“An understandable sentiment.”

As she stood, Hélène paused to examine her reflection in the polished surface of the clock above the mantel. Her eyes were bloodshot, darkly-lined. Something exhausted lurked in the corners of her mouth.

“Tolya,” she said, running a hand through her disheveled curls, “would you be a darling and pass me the vodka?”

Anatole offered her a glass. She went straight for the bottle instead, and drained it in one clean gulp.

“Oh,” he murmured.

Hélène wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and lowered the bottle back to the tray. It was remarkable, really, how dignified she managed to make wiping one’s mouth with the back of one’s hand look. Anatole knew he ought not to have been surprised. Hélène made everything she did look dignified.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, sweeping the hem of her dressing gown around the tea table, “I’ll be on my way.”

Anatole frowned as she and Dahanian strode past him towards the front hallway. “Where are you going?”

Hélène caught herself on the doorframe. “Out,” she said over her shoulder. “I need to clear my head.”

The door closed behind her with a resounding click. Anatole sank back into his seat with his feet propped up on the armrest, and Danali crawled into his lap.

“She always does this,” she said quietly.

“Perhaps it’s what she needs,” he said, and scratched between her ears.

A few moments later, Fedya’s footsteps came padding down the hallway, an irritable expression still plastered on his face. He had shed his jacket and vest, leaving him in his button-down shirt and braces. Samira followed behind him. In the darkness of the corridor, her eyes glowed a startling yellow, like gas-lamps.

“I can’t believe your sister,” he muttered.

Anatole hummed noncommittally.

“Every time she talks to Bezukhov, it’s like she forgets she has a spine,” he continued.

“We’re alone now, if it helps.”

It clearly did not help. With a great huff of exasperation, Fedya collapsed onto the settee next to Anatole and shoved his feet off the armrest to make room. Anatole quickly repositioned his legs to stretch across Fedya’s lap.

“Prick,” Fedya grunted. “Can’t even sit down on the goddamn sofa in peace, can I?”

Anatole grinned. “Is there an issue, _mon cher_?” He sat up and moved to straddle Fedya’s thighs, twining his arms around Fedya’s neck.

“What did he mean when he asked her to sleep with him?” Fedya asked, pulling away from Anatole.

Now Anatole’s grin took on a decidedly wicked appearance. “Oh, you know Pierre,” he drawled. “Cuddling under the sheets with the lights turned off, probably. I doubt he would have any idea what to do with her. Poor Lena.”

Fedya snorted. Whether it was out of amusement or resentment was impossible to tell.

“Enough about them,” he said, and smoothed his hands over Fedya’s shoulders. One finger under his chin, tilting his head upright. “I want a turn with you.”

“I thought it was Natasha Rostova you were after,” Fedya said coolly. It was obvious that he was attempting to remain impartial, to give off an air of disinterest, yet his hands had begun to migrate to Anatole’s waist.

This was a well-practiced routine of theirs, and they fell into it with such casual confidence they may just as well have been discussing the weather. Anatole couldn’t help but smirk. Fedya had never been able to resist playing along, had never been able to resist him. Not many people could. It was one of the precious few things in life he had consistently been able to bank on—Pierre’s oblivious, if reluctant generosity; Hélène’s general amenability to his schemes, no matter how half-baked; Balaga’s impeccable sense of timing.

And, of course, his own desirability.

“I’m perfectly capable of having more than one interest,” said Anatole. “Much,” he added pointedly, “like you.”

Fedya’s hands tightened on Anatole’s hips, like a vice. “That’s different.”

“Really?” he said, tilting his head to the side. “How so? Do enlighten me, _mon cher_. I’m very curious.”

“Your sister isn’t a passing fancy. You, on the other hand, would be quite content to spend the rest of your life hopping from bed to bed.”

Anatole shrugged. There was some truth to Fedya’s statement, but more than that was anger. “Perhaps Natasha Rostova isn’t a passing fancy,” he said faux-innocently. “Who knows? Perhaps she’ll set me right. Perhaps she’ll make an honest man out of me.”

Fedya’s face crumpled at that, and he shoved Anatole off the settee and onto the floor. “ _Natasha Rostova_ ,” he seethed. “God, Anatole, what about that girl is _interesting_?”

He shrugged again. “She’s beautiful.”

Fedya shook his head disdainfully. “‘She’s beautiful’. Of course that’s all it takes for you. I don’t know why I expected anything different.”

Anatole lay down against the carpet with his hands folded behind his head. Danali scampered onto the tea table beside him. The glass of the decanter warped her reflection like a funhouse mirror, and she almost startled at the sight of it.

“I’m a simple man, Fedya,” he said. “I appreciate the simple pleasures of life. Is it really a crime if I also appreciate beautiful women?” He turned on his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “Or is that jealousy I detect?”

“Over that child? Unlikely.”

“Then I suppose it shouldn’t bother you.”

“Of course not,” he snapped.

Anatole couldn’t help the smirk that worked its way onto his face. For a man who so prided himself on his cool temperament, Fedya was almost comically easy to wind up.

No wonder Hélène had taken such a shine to him. Anatole may have been a latecomer, but he was no less familiar with the inner workings of Fedya’s mind.

Or the most effective ways to elicit a reaction from him.

“You’re just angry,” he said, “because Lena isn’t here. Because she’s with her husband and not you.”

Samira growled warningly, and Anatole almost recoiled under the table. Danali let out a panicked shriek and dove down the collar of his waistcoat. He straightened up and glared at Fedya, crossing his arms.

“Don’t,” Fedya said.

“Am I telling you anything you don’t already know?”

Fedya didn’t bother to dignify this jibe with a response. He had dueled men for less. Shot them at forty paces without so much as blinking. Anatole briefly wondered whether it was out of personal fondness for him or regard for Hélène that Fedya did not immediately bolt to his feet to search for his pistol and insist on taking the conversation outside.

“She isn’t _really_ married to Pierre,” Fedya said stiffly. “She’d have to love him for that.”

There was a pregnant pause, and then a few moments later, Anatole yawned and languidly stretched his arms above his head. “Well, it’s late,” he said, making his way to his feet. “I suppose I should show you to the spare room?”

They started down the hall together. Fedya waved him down and said, “I know the way.”

Anatole gave him a lopsided grin, his most charming one. “I’m trying to be a good host. Heaven knows Lena’s been nagging me enough about my hospitality.”

“Or lack thereof.”

“Well, I suppose I won’t go with you, then,” he said haughtily.

Fedya caught Anatole’s wrist with a smirk. Danali’s tail gently brushed against his knuckles. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “Or is that like ordering Russia not to snow as well?”

Anatole didn’t bother to resist as the hold on his wrist tightened, as he was drawn in close and all but stumbled forwards until their noses almost brushed together. He had once thought Samira an unfitting dæmon for a man like Fedya, but now, with his eyes flashing wolfishly and his teeth bared in something halfway between a snarl and a grin, the resemblance was downright uncanny. It sent a thrill of trepidation down his spine, and he smiled in spite of it—or perhaps because of it.

“I’m good at taking orders,” he said teasingly.

“And that’s why you need me,” Fedya shot back. “To keep you in line.”

There was his opening. It would drive Fedya mad, for sure, but that was half of the appeal. “I bet Natasha Rostova would keep me in line.”

And then Fedya had Anatole against the wall, one hand tight on his wrists, pinning them together above his head.

“Could Natasha Rostova do this?” he growled, low and husky and just the slightest bit threatening.

Anatole smirked. “I’ll have to see for myself, won’t I?”

Fedya huffed under his breath and used his free hand to toy with Anatole’s collar. “When I’m through with you, you won’t even remember her.”

Anatole tipped his head back, chuckling. Fedya pressed a rough, biting kiss to the side of his neck.

“Ambitious,” he said with a lazy smile. “Though, again, I’ll have to see for myself.”

“Upstairs. Now,” Fedya snapped. Less an offer and more an order.

Samira’s mind always seemed to run five minutes ahead of the rest of the world, because she was already there by the time they reached the landing. Fedya ignored her as he all but dragged Anatole along behind him by the collar to the spare room.

The furniture here was older and shabbier than in the rest of the house, though it was still lavish even by Muscovite standards. Clean, if a little cramped. Anatole had lived here for the first few weeks of his stay, before he had invited himself into Pierre and Hélène’s wing of the house. Even now, two years later, his army uniform was still draped over a chair in the corner. In pristine condition, of course—there was little opportunity to exercise your marksmanship working in an adjutant office. A large four-poster bed stood at the far left wall by the window. Fedya made a beeline for it the second the door closed behind them and hastily shoved Anatole forwards.

“Stop. You’re going to wrinkle my shirt,” said Anatole.

Fedya rolled his eyes and said, “Apologies, princess."

He then proceeded to rip open the buttons and pull it off, ignoring the small noise of indignation that Anatole made.

“You,” Anatole said, “have no appreciation for the finer things in life.”

“I appreciate _you_ , don’t I?”

“You’re a shameless flirt.”

“Rich, coming from you.”

Anatole opened his mouth to protest, but Fedya surged forwards to cut him off with a kiss, slamming his back against the bedpost. His left foot almost landed on Samira’s tail as she curled up at the footboard. She let out a warning growl and then pottered over to the doorway for some peace and quiet.

“You’re awfully eager tonight,” Anatole said breathlessly. His own feet were hardly supporting his weight anymore. He felt his pulse thrumming frantically in his stomach.

Fedya curled one hand in his hair, the other around his waist. “I’m always eager for you.”

“Me, or Hélène?”

Fedya’s nails dug into his scalp. He pulled, gently at first, and then more roughly, until Anatole winced. Danali squeaked softly and made a leap for the dresser.

“Well, I’m here with you now,” said Fedya.

“Sure you are,” he said. “But you’d rather have the both of us, wouldn’t you? You greedy thing. I suppose I can’t blame you, seeing as how _irresistible_ we—”

“You shut your damn mouth.”

Anatole rolled his eyes mockingly. “Possessive too. I know you like to think you’re subtle, _mon cher_ , but you really aren’t.”

“I don’t give a damn what either of you do.”

“That isn’t true, though,” he continued. “It’s really bothering you, isn’t it? Thinking of her with Pierre. Knowing that she picked him over you.” He paused, watching as Fedya’s expression hardened. “Or is it the thought of me and Natasha that bothers you more?”

Anatole vaguely registered that this may have been a mistake when the hand in his hair tightened painfully and Danali let out an emphatic hiss. Seeing Fedya struggle to contain his indignation, it hardly seemed to matter.

“You brat,” he said. “Fuck you, Kuragin.”

Anatole grinned. “Is that an offer? Or a promise?”

Fedya chuckled. He was caving. He always did. It was difficult to stay angry at Anatole Vasilyevich for long, especially when he was in a bantering mood. The hand in his hair loosened, and Fedya’s face softened with mirth.

“Just as witty as Lena,” he said. “Play your cards right, and it’s both.”

“ _Quel gentleman_.”

“Enough of your bloody French,” said Fedya, though there was no bite in his words anymore.

“ _Quel dommage_ ,” Anatole said with a smile.

Fedya laughed. Still grinning, laughing too, Anatole allowed himself to be pushed backwards and onto the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you liked, consider leaving a comment/ kudos! They mean the world to us!


	4. Scheming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fedya really wishes he had picked different people to sleep with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some warnings for minor blasphemy/ period-typical homophobia!

Moscow in midwinter, Hélène thought, must have been the dreariest sight in all of Russia.

Petersburg would still have been buzzing at this hour. The streets would have swelled with light and laughter. Buskers would have clamored for an audience, klezmer clarinets and shrieking violins and waltzing accordions. There would have been dancing and drinking, and the air would have crackled with youthful excitement as well-dressed couples left the opera houses and clubs.

Moscow lay silent. Like a mausoleum. Like something dead and crumbling.

Hélène found herself hating Pierre more and more with every step she took. It wasn’t right. None of this was. She hadn’t asked for this. Hadn’t wanted to have to leave home, hadn’t even wanted to marry him, but she hadn’t been given much say in the matter. Vasily, for all his polite words and paternal charm, had always been rather uncompromising in that regard. Less a father and more a businessman.

 _It could have been worse_ , said the voice in her head, the irritating one that she so often fought into silence. _He could have had you married off to some aged old goat with no teeth_.

All things considered, though, she would have almost preferred just that. Old men, as a general principle, died sooner than young ones, and Pierre seemed in no hurry to shuffle off this mortal coil to leave her with his inheritance. It was patently unjust with everything he had done, with everything he _did_ , that she was expected to play along as the perfect, simpering wife.

Anatole, at least, made things a little more bearable, though he had his insufferable moments. Fedya was fun until he wasn’t, and then he was just as infuriating and entitled as Pierre.

 _Wonderful company you’ve surrounded yourself with_ , _Lena_.

Hélène politely told the voice to be quiet and continued to walk.

The streets here were narrower, the gas-lamps more sparsely placed, but it hardly made a difference, what with the way the cobblestones and snow-lined gutters caught the silver glare of the moonlight. Hélène didn’t know where she was going or even where she was, nor did she care. You couldn’t get lost in Moscow—heaven knew she had tried—only distracted, pulled down a different path to the one you already knew, just to wind up right where you started.

So she followed where her feet led her. Several left turns, then through a twisting alley, down a flight of stairs, over a bridge and under an archway and onwards and onwards still. Endless rows of identical brick houses slowly gave way to shabbier apartment buildings, their chimneys spewing plumes of black smoke into the starless sky. Further in the distance, she saw the rising steeple of a church.

Hélène pulled the sash of her dressing gown a little tighter and folded her arms around herself. The cold had begun to seep into her bones. It left her numb and aching all at once. Dahanian must have seen how she was shivering, because he pressed up against her and curled his tail around her ankles.

“You ought to leave him,” he said. The first words he had spoken to her all night.

Hélène scoffed and rucked up her skirts when they began to trail against the street. She knew she should have chosen something more practical to wear, but it didn’t matter now. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“He makes you miserable.”

“Plenty of things make me miserable. It doesn’t mean that we can do away with them without consequence. Besides,” she added, “do you really think Pierre would grant me a divorce?”

Dahanian sniffed at the air. “Adultery is grounds for divorce.”

“What would I do, then? Where would I go? I have nothing of my own. Everything I have, the lifestyle I lead, all gone.”

“You could always go back home.”

Hélène paused in mid-step. “Not if I was publicly accused of adultery. Papa would sooner disown me than let an adulteress under his roof.” She softened slightly. “And then where would Anatole go?”

“He’s not a child. He could fend for himself.”

“No, he couldn’t. He’s a fool, my Tolya. He wouldn’t have a clue what to do.”

“Perhaps he’s smarter than you give him credit for.”

Hélène cracked a smile at that, almost laughed in spite of herself. “I think you’re being generous.”

Dahanian cocked his head. “He understands you. Better than anyone.”

“That’s hardly saying much.”

“Still.”

Now the street began to slope downwards. Hélène looked up and saw a tall, wrought-iron fence and a gate, and beyond that, a broad stretch of land. They had arrived at the park. The lake—the lake Pierre had taken her skating on a few winters ago—was frozen over, completely obscured by a thick blanket of snow. She saw the bench where she and Anatole used to sit in the summer, tossing breadcrumbs to the ducks, and the tree where Fedya had taught her how to shoot his pistol, sneaking out in the dead of night for target practice. Save for herself and Dahanian, there wasn’t a soul in sight.

Hélène exhaled and watched as her breath crystallized in front of her before it was swept away in the wind. She wondered how she had happened upon this place. Perhaps her feet had led her here of their own accord.

Dahanian followed her silently as she walked forwards, past the gate, as if in a trance. The snow almost came up to her knees.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she murmured. “Look at it, Danochka. So pristine and white. I could just take my foot and…” She pressed one slippered foot down into the snowdrift, marveling at the way it crushed and folded beneath her weight.

Dahanian tittered. “Look at yourself. Acting like a child.”

Hélène sighed and tipped her head up to the sky. Already, snowflakes had begun to gather on her eyelashes and in her hair. She hardly felt the cold anymore. “Nobody can act like an adult all the time,” she said. “It’d drive you mad. Surely you know that by now.”

“Lena.”

“Just a few more minutes.”

“You’ll freeze.”

“Perhaps I shall.”

Dahanian snarled and rolled his eyes. His tail flicked back and forth agitatedly.

“Go on,” she said, gesturing to the snowy field before them. “I know you want to.”

He huffed.

“Oh, Danochka. Come now. It’s only me. You’re allowed to have fun.”

Dahanian seemed to hesitate, but only for a moment. He crouched, muscles tensed like a spring, and then bounded forwards into the snowdrift. Hélène smiled, and suddenly she was fourteen again, back in Petersburg, and Dahanian had just settled, still exploring his new form, and it was a cold winter night like this one and they had slipped away from the house to run wild in the park.

The scolding had been worth it, if only for the breathless exhilaration and sense of boundless freedom that had crashed over her like a wave.

Hélène didn’t bother to clear the snow from the bench before she sank into her usual seat and drew her knees up to her chest. She watched as Dahanian jumped and twisted and rolled about, laughing all the while. A thrill of giddiness and excitement welled up in her chest, though whether it was hers or his, she couldn’t tell.

Grinning, she reached down to gather a fistful of snow and packed it into a tight ball. The muscle memory returned to her with surprising ease. She and Anatole had done this countless times as children. Ippolit, too, when they cajoled him into joining them. What a wild little thing she had been then.

Dahanian seemed too preoccupied with his own tail to notice the mischievous grin that had worked its way onto her face. Hélène aimed carefully and lobbed the snowball at his head. It struck him between the eyes. He growled and tossed his head, and she rocked back and forth in her seat, laughing like a madwoman, one hand pressed to her stomach and the other clinging to the armrest for balance.

Dahanian trotted back towards her, jumped up onto the bench, and placed his massive paws on her shoulders. Hélène giggled and tapped him on the nose. Even his whiskers were covered in snow. He snorted in disapproval and put more of his weight on her, until they both went tumbling to the ground, and she dissolved into hysterical laughter as they wrestled, tossing and turning like children.

Eventually they lay together in the snow, staring up at the sky, panting and heaving as they caught their breath. Hélène rolled over onto her side and tangled her hands in Dahanian’s fur. Something deep and tender ached in her heart. She had almost forgotten how much she missed this—this careless, youthful glee. When had she stopped being a child? How long had it been since she had last felt so happy and wild?

After a while, Dahanian stood up and shook off his coat. Snow went flying in all directions. Hélène’s hands followed him, searching for his familiar warmth. “Danochka,” she murmured.

He cast a quick glance back to the street. “We should be off now,” he said. “Before you catch your death.”

Hélène nodded in assent. Now as she looked again, the sky seemed to have grown greyer and angrier, and the colors of the park seemed less saturated somehow. As if she were seeing through new eyes. As if she had grown up again. It made her sad, for a reason she couldn’t quite pinpoint.

Slowly, wordlessly, she made her way to her feet, and the two of them started off back to the house.

* * *

 

It was afterwards, when they lay together in bed, warm and thoughtless and counting each other’s breaths, that Fedya enjoyed most.

Anatole’s head was a comforting weight against his chest. For once, he seemed perfectly content to remain silent, not to fill the empty air with chatter. It was a rare and welcome reprieve.

“Are you asleep?”

Maybe not.

“I might as well be,” Fedya sighed. “Why aren’t you?”

Anatole snuggled in a little closer. His eyes were still closed. “I’m trying to get comfortable,” he hummed. “You make a terrible pillow. Too muscly.”

Fedya swatted the back of his head playfully. “Then get off me.”

“Perhaps I’ll stay, then,” he said. Left unspoken was a very petulant, _J_ _ust to piss you off_.

Fedya smiled and leaned his head back against the pillow, stroking Anatole’s hair with one hand. Danali was still peacefully curled up on top of the dresser, which must have meant that he really did want to stay. The thought was more reassuring than it should have been.

But because he was a Dolokhov and by nature couldn’t pass up an opportunity to tease, he said, “You’re impossible. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“On numerous occasions.” A pause. “And yet, here you are.”

Fedya raised an eyebrow. “Cocky.”

Anatole chuckled. Fedya felt it vibrating in his chest. “No reason not to be.”

“Modesty is a virtue.”

“Oh, _mon canard_ , we both know I’m far beyond virtue.”

Fedya would have laughed, had it not been so true.

When he said nothing further, Anatole nosed his way into the crook of Fedya’s neck and slung an arm around his waist with a content hum.

Fedya ran a hand up and down his back. “What are you thinking about?”

“Natasha Rostova,” Anatole murmured. “Oh, Fedya, she looked so beautiful tonight, don’t you think?”

“I don’t want to talk about her,” he said, and though he tried to swallow his pride, there was something brittle and maybe even a little hurt in his voice.

Anatole raised an eyebrow and turned himself over until he was lying on top of Fedya, resting his chin against Fedya’s sternum. “Still jealous, _mon cher_? Because—”

“Tolya. Please.”

Anatole looked up at Fedya through his eyelashes. He was too charming for his own good, Fedya thought. For everyone’s good. That silver tongue could talk him right out of any situation it could talk him into. Fedya couldn’t help but wonder when that was going to come back to bite them in the ass, but even so, he felt himself caving.

“Alright,” Anatole said, “we won’t speak of it anymore. I do think you’re being foolish, though.”

“Difficult not to be, especially where you’re concerned.”

Anatole huffed and let his head fall, one ear pressed against Fedya’s chest, and he began to run his fingers up and down the inside of Fedya’s forearm.

“Christ,” said Fedya, taking Anatole’s hand in his own. “Your hands are like ice.”

Anatole smiled. “Well, you’re warm.”

“Just as bad as your sister,” he murmured. Anatole pressed his freezing-cold feet to Fedya’s shins in retaliation. Fedya hissed and ruffled his hair. “Don’t be a brat.”

Anatole grinned and kissed Fedya’s jaw. “I am that I am. _Je suis ce que je suis._ ”

Fedya ground his teeth together. Anatole may not have been a churchgoer, may have been an unrepentant agnostic even, but surely even he was well aware of the gravity of what he had said. “Don’t be disrespectful,” he said sternly.

Anatole rolled his eyes.

“I’m not joking. Blasphemy isn’t funny.”

“Oh, Fyedka,” Anatole sighed. “Now you’re starting to sound like Lena. ‘Blasphemy’ this and ‘heresy’ that, and before you know it, it’s a sin to blow your goddamn nose.”

“You could learn a thing or two from her.”

“I have,” he said pointedly. “I’ve learned many things from her. You do know, Fedya, that the Church frowns on hypocrisy too?”

Fedya’s face began to burn. Because Anatole was _right_ , dammit all, and he was the lowest kind of hypocrite.

Anatole chuckled in an oddly condescending mixture of pity and amusement and shook his head. “We’re all lowly sinners, _mon cher_. You learn to live with it.” He ran a finger up Fedya’s chest. “Enjoy what you can. We all go back to dust, at the end of the day.”

Capital or lowercase ‘d’? It was impossible to tell what he had meant, and Anatole’s face betrayed nothing. And because Fedya wanted nothing to do with such nonsense, he pushed the thought to the back of his mind and decided to drop the matter entirely.

“That’s a good boy,” Anatole purred, ignoring the glare Fedya shot him. “Life’s too short to worry.”  

“Is that your new favorite saying?”

“Perhaps,” he said with a catlike smile. He closed his eyes again. “I could stay like this all night,” he hummed. “Wouldn’t that be lovely, Fedya? Don’t you just want to lie here forever?”

“We shouldn’t abandon Lena. She’s already in a foul mood,” Fedya reminded him. “She’s taking long enough to leave Pierre.”

“Lena? She’s already left.”

Fedya raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

A shrug. “She waited till Pierre fell asleep and then went out for a stroll. Probably to walk off all that anger.”

At that, Fedya bolted upright with such force that Anatole toppled out of the bed and onto the floor, taking the bedsheets with him. “ _Outside_?”

Anatole, not entirely taken with being shoved to the ground like a sack of potatoes, scowled and began to untangle his legs from the sheets. “Yes, Fyodor,” he snapped. “Outside. That is generally where people go to take walks.”

“When did she leave?”

Another shrug, this one even more maddeningly petulant than the first. “Maybe an hour ago. Before we came up here, at any rate.”

Fedya reached for his trousers and began to pull them on. His hands were shaking, which made it more difficult than it should have been. “Your sister has been wandering the streets alone in the middle of the night for the past hour and not once did you think to tell me?”

“She wanted to be alone,” Anatole said. “It’s Moscow, Fedya, not a warzone. She’ll be fine.”

“I should go look for her,” he said, and began to rummage about the foot of the bed for his socks.

Still sitting on the floor, Anatole leaned his back against the bedpost and curled the sheets around himself. He didn’t seem particularly inclined to get dressed. The lazy sod. Danali scampered across the room and leapt onto his shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “She can handle herself.”

“And if she's robbed? Or freezes to death?”

Anatole fell silent.

Fedya shook his head disapprovingly. “Just as I thought.” He jammed his feet into his boots. “Why does she insist on doing idiotic things like this? We would have gone with her.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Oh, hush, you.”

Anatole frowned as Fedya marched towards the doorway. “Where are you going?”

“To find your sister,” he grumbled.

Anatole did not follow as he and Samira made their way downstairs. Save for the quiet ticking of the mantel clock, the first floor lay in complete silence. Fedya buttoned up his shirt and straightened his collar, but before he could even reach for his coat, the door handle turned and Hélène slipped into the front hall, Dahanian at her heels.

“Speak of the devil.” He crossed his arms and fixed her with a sharp glare. “I was about to go looking for you.”

Hélène closed the door behind her, leaning against it heavily. “Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Going out this late and in this weather was incredibly stupid,” he said. “What if you had gotten hurt?”

Hélène didn’t bother dignifying that with a response, only marched across the threshold and into the parlor. Fedya followed her.

“Where are you going?”

“Away from you,” she snapped. She stopped dead in her tracks when he caught her hand.

“Lena, you’re frozen.”

“I can thaw in the sitting room,” she said, but her prim tone could not hide the way her teeth chattered slightly or the faint bluish tint to her lips.

Fedya furrowed his brow as he took in the sight of her stockings, dripping wet with melted snow. Already, a puddle had begun to form at her feet. Samira nudged her way between them. “Tell me you didn’t go out in just your slippers.”

Anatole came traipsing downstairs with his hair in disarray and his shirt half-tucked into the waistband of his trousers. Better late than never, Fedya supposed.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“Your sister is being a fool,” Fedya said drily. Hélène rolled her eyes. “For once, it’s not you.”

Anatole frowned at Hélène, noting how damp the hem of her dressing gown was and the snow that still clung to her hair. “Lena, you’re going to catch your death.”

Hélène slid out of Fedya’s grasp with an annoyed huff.

“We could send for a maidservant, have a bath drawn,” Anatole offered, but she waved him down.

“Don’t bother.”

“At least come and sit by the fireplace,” Fedya said.

Hélène shot him a glare but took his hand when Dahanian bumped her leg with his head and growled in the back of his throat. “The fire’s gone out,” she said.

Not entirely. There was still some life left in the dying embers. Fedya coaxed them back into a flame with a practiced hand and a few gentle prods from the poker. He smelled soot and ash and felt heat on his face, and the memories came flooding back—his mother’s house, the sputtering coal stove in the corner of the kitchen, cold nights when the fuel had run out and the biting winds seeped between the cracks of the walls. He had crouched at the foot of the stove, just as he crouched now at the hearth, and roused a fire out of the cinders, weak at first, and they had had to shield it from the wind with their own bodies until it could stand on its own without going out. It was a skill that had served him well during his deployments, when night fell and the temperature took a sharp dip and the campfire threatened to cough out to a bitter, smoking end and leave them all alone in the chill.

Coal stoves and campfires. There were some lessons you couldn’t buy, not for all the money in the world. Not for anything the Kuragins could offer, anyway.

“Better?” he said.

Hélène drew her arms around herself. “It’s fine.”

“You ought to put on something warmer.”

“I don’t want to wake up Pierre.”

Fedya shook his head with a defeated huff. Some battles, he had to concede, were not worth fighting. “You’re going to be the death of me, Lena.”

Hélène didn’t say anything to that, but she did smile a little.

Fedya dragged the ottoman across the carpet until it sat a comfortable distance from the fireplace. He and Anatole sat Hélène down on the seat, one on either side of her, and began to massage the blood back into her frozen hands. Fedya wrapped an arm around her waist, and she sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder.

“That feels good,” she hummed.

“The next time you decide to blow off some steam, could you choose somewhere other than the streets of Moscow to do it?” said Fedya.

“And at a more reasonable hour?” added Anatole. He opened his mouth, no doubt to complain more, but Fedya silenced him with a sharp glare.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Hélène muttered. There was no heat behind her words. Fedya and Anatole made eye contact over her head and snickered in tandem.

“Aw, love,” said Fedya, toying with her hair. “Didn’t mean to offend. Please accept my most humble apologies.”

Hélène snorted. “Fyodor Ivanovich Dolokhov, apologizing for something? Send for the doctor, Tolya. The man’s lost his mind.”

Anatole laughed. Fedya pulled his arm back and shucked off his jacket, laying it over her like a blanket. “I’m not the one who wandered outside in a dressing gown and slippers.”

“You weren’t complaining when you had Anatole to yourself,” she said. “How long did it take you to even realize I was gone?”

Fedya fell silent.

“Maybe you’ve both lost your minds,” said Anatole. “Maybe you never had them in the first place.”

Hélène stuck her tongue out at him. “Respect your elders.”

Anatole shrugged with an impish grin. “Age before beauty, I suppose,” he said, and Hélène probably would have smacked him had he not ducked out of the way, laughing.

“Anatole, fetch your jacket,” said Fedya. “Lena’s still shivering.”

“For Christ’s sake, I’m _fine_.”

“Your lips are blue,” Anatole said.

“Would it really be all that painful to let us help?” said Fedya.

“You’re already helping,” she grumbled, but her voice trailed off with a quiet gasp when Samira nudged her way to the foot of the ottoman and curled up on the rug. Hélène tilted her head for a better look. “Sami?”

“Go on,” said Fedya, with the hint of a smirk lurking beneath his beard. “Put your feet up. She won’t mind.”

“Fedya—”

“It’ll warm you through faster.”

Hélène sighed and placed her feet on Samira’s back. She felt a soft rumbling beneath her heels as Samira hummed in the back of her throat, and her tail began to swish back and forth. Danali chittered at Hélène and scampered across her chest, draping herself around her throat like a scarf. Her fur tickled Hélène’s chin.

“You boys are spoiling me,” she murmured.

“Aw, Lenka,” said Anatole.

Fedya laughed and leaned over to nip at her earlobe. “We enjoy spoiling you.”

From across the hall there came the sound of creaking floorboards. Hélène stiffened and bolted upright, and Danali tumbled off of her chest with a surprised hiss. “What was that?”

Anatole, who was the only one of the three with a view of the hallway, said, “It was nothing. Just the house settling down for the night, I’m sure.”

Hélène craned her neck, but she was too short and too low-set on the ottoman to see.

Fedya blinked. “It’s morning, Tolya.”

“It’s an old house,” he said, slightly miffed. “Perhaps it takes all night to settle down.”

Hélène’s frown deepened. “Old house or not, one of you had better shut the door before a maid walks in.”

Anatole cocked his head. “So early? No one else is awake, Lena.”

Hélène swallowed and said, “Pierre sleepwalks on occasion.” She pulled her hands back, holding them close to her chest, and rubbed them together. “And either way, it’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” Anatole said. Hélène caught Fedya’s eye a second before Anatole did. “What?” he said. “We aren’t hurting anyone.”

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Fedya.

Hélène sighed. “It’s not about hurting anyone, Tolya. You know how people feel about the taboo.”

“But why?”

Anatole’s childish petulance could be humorous at times, endearing, even. Now was not one of those times. Fedya rolled his eyes and said, “We’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“Oh, fuck you, Dolokhov,” Anatole snapped.

“It’s not a big deal,” Fedya said. “We both told you that we don’t want you to do it, so don’t.”

“Of course you’re siding with her.”

“I am not _siding_ with anyone.”

“He is,” Hélène cut in, “because you are acting like a child.”

“I like the way it feels!”

Fedya sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. “Tolya…”

“It’s comforting,” Anatole said. “And it makes me feel closer to you.”

As if in demonstration, he reached out a hand to ruffle Dahanian’s fur. He had just touched the nape of his neck when Dahanian whipped around and snarled at Anatole, baring his teeth. Anatole snatched his hand back immediately, and Danali leapt to his wrist.

He turned back to Hélène, hurt clearly spelled out across his features. “Did I say something wrong?”

Hélène shook her head with a disgusted sigh. “You need to be realistic. Maybe it would be for the best if we stop.”

“Lena—”

“I’m serious, Anatole. This…this isn’t a game, this is dangerous.”

“It’s stupid,” he snapped. “Why should I have to hide this?”

“Because people won’t understand, and it’s wrong, and it’ll ruin all of our lives.”

“But it doesn’t feel wrong.”

“Well, it is,” she said stiffly. “You don’t have to like it, you don’t have to agree with it. But you know what the Church says. It’s that way for a reason.”

“And what is that reason?”

“I don’t know!” Hélène said, rage exploding out of her as violently as a cannon. “Jesus Christ, Anatole, do you really feel the need to question everything I do for you?”

Anatole shrank back into his seat with a childish pout. “You aren’t doing this for me.”

Hélène’s face hardened. “Of course I am, you stupid child. You’re being unreasonable.”

“You’re being cruel.”

“Oh, grow the hell up.”

Anatole shot to his feet at once. He had never been one easily turned to anger, but now something hot and defensive burned in his eyes. “Forgive me if I am not as heartless as you are.”

“Oh, _Anatole_ ,” Fedya snapped.

Hélène stared at him for a second in shock before bursting into tears. Anatole’s eyes went wide. He hardly had the right to be surprised, thought Fedya. If years and years of living with Hélène hadn’t taught him to expect a volatile reaction when he argued against her, then what would?

“Look what you’ve done,” he said sternly, and drew Hélène in close until her face was pressed into his shoulder.

“I haven’t done a damn thing,” Anatole protested. “Fedya, I didn’t do anything to her.”

“Clearly you did, otherwise she wouldn’t be crying.”

Samira walked over to Hélène and nudged her way under Hélène’s arms. Anatole sat back on his heels, frowning. “Sami’s never that affectionate with me.”

“That’s different,” Fedya said.

“But why?”

“It just _is_ , Anatole.”

Anatole crossed his arms over his chest. “You always do this. You always listen to her instead of me.”

“Maybe I would listen to you if something other than mindless drivel came out of your mouth for once.”

Hélène’s sobs continued to grow louder. Fedya softened.

“Oh, Lenka, hush now. It’s alright, I’m here.”

“ _Oh, Lenka_ ,” Anatole mimicked, in an unflattering, high-pitched voice. “ _Oh_ , _my darling_ , _dearest Lenochka_ , _don’t you worry_ , _I’ll take_ your _side on every_ —”

Samira snapped at Danali, who shrieked and dove for cover behind Anatole.

“Enough,” Fedya snapped. “Can’t you see you’re only upsetting her?”

Anatole’s face reddened. “Well, she was upsetting me!”

Hélène cried out and Fedya wrapped his arms around her, glaring at Anatole. “You should leave.”

Anatole seemed on the verge of tearing his hair out. He floundered for a moment, clearly struggling for words, and then turned on his heels and fled the room. It was a testament to his frustration that he didn’t even bother to wait for Danali. Her little head perked up, and, noticing that he was gone, she leapt off the table and streaked across the floor after him. They heard his footsteps thundering all the way up the staircase, followed by the bang of a door being slammed shut.

Hélène let out a sigh and relaxed against Fedya.

“Lena,” he murmured, gently touching her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

She smoothed back her hair with the palm of one hand. There was no need to—in spite of everything, she looked just as unflappable and put-together as always. Her eyes had already begun to dry. “Of course,” she said.

Fedya’s concern buckled and collapsed into disappointment. God, what a fool he was. He had seen her pull this trick on countless other people. He should have known she would have no qualms about turning it on him.

“I really shouldn't be surprised,” he said, shaking his head.

Hélène straightened her back defensively. Dahanian’s tail swept back and forth along the edge of the rug. “Pardon?”

“What an actress you are. Have you ever considered a career in the theatre?”

“Oh, come off it,” she snapped. “He had it coming. Has had it coming for a long time. What’s the harm in it?”

“You’ve upset him,” Fedya said, as if it were not the most obvious thing in the world. “You should talk to him.”

Hélène pulled away from him and walked over to Dahanian to stroke his fur. “Not tonight.”

“You seem to have found the time to do plenty of other things tonight. Why should this be any different?”

“Because, Fyodor,” she said coldly, “I am in no mood to deal with my brother and his childish antics right now.”

“Nor am I in any mood to deal with you and your guilt-trips. And yet, here I am.”

With a frustrated huff, Hélène slumped back against the window seat. Dahanian clambered onto the cushion beside her to wind around her still-wet feet. “You know that I’m right.”

“That doesn’t mean I’ll give you the satisfaction of hearing me admit it.”

Hélène was quiet for a long while. She looked out the window, leaning her head against the glass. Her reflection was dark and blurry.

“That girl at the opera,” she said eventually, in that soft, and calculated tone of hers that made Fedya’s skin crawl. “What was her name again?”

Fedya paused. Hélène didn’t forget the names of people she had met, which must have meant that she was only asking to advance a point. Which, by extension, must have meant that she was plotting something. Never a good sign.

He humored her anyway.

“Natalya Ilyinichna. Count Rostov’s youngest daughter.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re familiar with the Rostovs?”

“I won ten thousand rubles from the older brother in a game of poker several years ago,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Yes, I remember that family well. I only hope that they don’t remember me.”

“Guilty conscience?”

Fedya shrugged. “More like self-preservation.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.”

“As amusing as it is to reminisce,” he said drily, “why do you want to know about Natalya Rostova?”

Now it was Hélène who shrugged, nonchalant and more unsettling than he cared to admit. “I’m curious. And she’s quite charming, isn’t she?”

He nodded cautiously. “What are you meaning to imply?”

“Only that dear Tolya seemed quite enamored with her.”

Fedya’s heart sank. Of course it would come back to that. Not even a day had passed, and this Natasha was already becoming a problem. He should have seen this coming.

“It doesn’t take all that much with Anatole,” he said.

“Well, _I_ think that they would make a darling pair. Don’t you agree?”

He pressed his lips into a thin line. “I hear that she has a fiancé. Prince Andrei Bolkonsky.”

“And I have a husband,” she deadpanned. “It’s an easy fix.”

“Yes,” he said, equally as flat, and Hélène rolled her eyes, “easy as being shot at forty paces. Honestly, Lena, do you even hear yourself?”

“That’s a bit rich coming from you.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, raising an indignant eyebrow.

“After all, you _are_ the one cavorting around with a married woman. And her brother too, no less.”

Fedya fell silent. It had been foolish of him to hope Hélène would have the decency to leave his private life alone. She had never had any scruples when it came to arguing, and she knew all of his sore points and insecurities, almost as well as he did. Perhaps even a little better. Of the two accusations, he still had yet to decide which was more reprehensible, although he supposed that he had, admittedly, invested more effort into hiding whatever it was he had with Anatole.

He thought of Pierre and wondered if that would have to change soon.

Hélène smirked. Clearly, her remark had had its desired effect. “See?” she said. “These things don’t matter. Especially when the girl’s not even married yet.”

“So what? You’re going to throw her at Tolya and hope his attention span sticks?”

“Don’t be silly. I’m going to have her throw _herself_ at Tolya.” Her lips parted into a smug grin. “Simple, isn’t it?”

Fedya tipped his head back against the wall and stared at the wall, the door, the ceiling. Anywhere but her. “What’s that going to accomplish?”

“He won’t be as focused on us,” she said. “We won’t have to worry about him doing something inappropriate.”

“Lena.”

“He’s a danger to himself. I love him, Fedya, I truly do, but he’s a loose cannon. If we don’t do something, he’ll blast us all to shreds one day.”

“Still,” he murmured.

Hélène frowned. “Don’t tell me you’re choosing now of all times to grow a moral backbone.”

Fedya glanced over to the window and the settee beneath it, where Samira’s worried pacing was beginning to wear a hole in the floorboards. He sighed. “I don’t like this.”

“You don’t have to. All you have to do is help me.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” he said stiffly. “And I most certainly don’t have to help you.”

Hélène tilted her head to the side, allowing her dark curls to spill over her shoulders. “Then don’t think of it as helping me. Think of it as helping Tolya.” She took a step forwards to cup Fedya’s chin in her hands. “Think of it as saving him from himself.”

Fedya turned away. Hélène laid her palms flat against his chest.

“What would happen to you if people found out?”

He took a step backwards. “I’ll deal with him, then.”

“And what if you can’t?” she said, advancing on him. “What if word slips out? If we’re caught? What happens then? What would happen to us, Fedya? To _him_?” Her face darkened. “Papa would have him hauled off to prison, if not the front line.”

Fedya flinched. “Lena.”

“Is that what you want?”

“No, of course not, I only—”

“Then help me.”

“But the girl—”

“Is a necessary evil,” Hélène said firmly. “She’s charming enough. She would be happy with him. We’re not ruining her life. We’re just giving her an alternate option.”

Fedya clenched his jaw. He felt Dahanian brushing at his heels, purring and winding between his legs like a snake. “And you really believe that?”

Hélène shrugged. “She’s engaged to _Bolkonsky_. As far as I’m concerned, we’re doing her a favor.” She tilted his chin back towards her with one hand, running the other through his hair. “It’s the best thing we can do,” she said. “For the both of them.”

“Fine,” he muttered. “For Anatole. Not you.”

Hélène leaned in until her lips brushed against the shell of his ear. “That’s all I needed to hear,” she said, and kissed the side of his neck.

Fedya was quick to disentangle himself from her. “I’m going home.”

At that, Hélène pulled away from him and raised an eyebrow. “Fine. Shall I order you a carriage?”

“I’ll walk,” he said flatly. The spot where she had kissed him began to burn. His hand quickly moved to wipe the lipstick off. “We’ll talk later.”

“Very well. Goodnight, lover.”

“Goodnight, Hélène.”

Fedya tossed on his coat without another word as he shouldered the door open and stepped into the street. Samira walked on ahead of him. It had stopped snowing at last, but a stagnant chill lingered in his chest. He didn’t look back as he rounded the corner onto Tolstaya Boulevard.

The gas-lamps had begun to dim in preparation of a new day. Church bells rang in the distance, and ahead, the Sun was cresting on the horizon. Moscow was waking once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, consider leaving us some feedback! We <3 it a Lot


	5. Letters Not yet Delivered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Fedya both begin to re-evaluate what they really want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're officially back from hiatus! Make sure to check out our other fics 'Either Very Clever or Very Stupid' and 'On the Lam'!

Anatole’s bedroom was upstairs in the east wing of the house, where the glare of the Sun was intolerably bright on frigid mornings like these, even with the curtains drawn. On most days this was an absolute nuisance, but it hardly bothered him now. Between the eerie stillness of the house and the whirlwind of thoughts raging in his head, he hadn’t been able to sleep a wink.

Presently, he lay flat on his back and stared at the ceiling with his arms up in the air, allowing Danali to wind herself around his wrists and leap from hand to hand with all the grace of a circus acrobat. They had done this ever since they were small, one of the many little games they had invented to entertain themselves when Hélène was otherwise occupied. Back then, before she had settled, Danali would become a flying squirrel or a lark in mid-air, and the two of them would erupt into riotous laughter as she flitted around the room on gliders or wings.  

Danali may have no longer been able to shift, but she was still an agile little thing, small and sneaky enough to go almost anywhere she pleased. Once she grew bored of jumping about, she clambered down his arm and sat on his chest.

“You’re sad,” she announced.

The worst thing about having someone who lived in your head and knew you as well as you knew yourself was precisely that they lived in your head and knew you as well as you knew yourself. Danali had never been shy with her observations, but Anatole couldn’t deny that if her blunt perceptiveness hadn’t been grating on his nerves for the past twenty-four years, it was certainly beginning to now.

He shrugged, allowing his arms to slump to the bed. “I don’t like fighting with Lena.”

“That’s not the only reason why, though. Isn’t it?”

“It’s a lot of different things. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

Danali tilted her head to the side. “Yes, you do.”

Anatole scowled, because she was right. “It isn’t fair that Fedya only listens to Hélène.”

“Well, it’s not as if he really listens to anyone.”

“Not to me, at least,” he said, and shifted to sit upright against the headboard. Danali tumbled onto the mattress with an indignant chirrup. “Oh, hush, you. I know you’re not hurt.”

“You know that he loves you,” she scolded.

He sighed, drawing his arms around himself, tucking his knees under his chin. Love. Fedya Dolokhov didn’t love anything but himself and his pistols and his card games. Wouldn’t have known love if it bit him in the ass, wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between adoration and hatred if his life depended on it.

Jealousy, now, _that_ he seemed to manage easily. But it wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t ever be enough.

“No, I don’t,” he breathed. It felt better to say it out loud. Bolstering, almost. He could believe it, now that he had heard it in his own voice.

“You’re only saying that,” she said, but she didn’t sound convinced.

Anatole shrugged again. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

Danali’s face drooped. It was such a pathetic sight that he felt his earlier frustrations with her melting away into pity. “I should be better at making you happy,” she said, in a small voice. “Like Dahanian.”

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

“It’s true.”

“Dahanian is smug. And too serious. I wouldn’t want to be stuck with him.”

Danali chittered—her version of laughter.

“Besides, look at yourself,” he murmured, and tapped her on the nose. “Just as graceful as Galian.”

“I miss him,” she said.

“I miss _them_.” He frowned, curling his fingers around thin air. “Him and Mama.”

“Oh, Tolya.”

In that moment, Anatole wished dearly, as he had for the past ten or so years, that she wasn’t settled, that she could still shift into something large and comforting to cling to, like Dahanian or Samira or hell, even Khione.

Danali, sensing his unhappiness, sighed and crawled into his lap. It wasn’t enough warmth, but it helped, at least a little. He reached out one hand to stroke down her back.

“I wonder if she misses us,” he said.

Danali nipped at his finger affectionately. “You know she does.”

“Perhaps I should write her. It’s been a long time.”

“You should.”

“Maybe I’ll go back, then,” he mused. “We could sneak out and get on a train tomorrow and go home.”

That gave her pause. “Lena wouldn’t be happy.”

He thought back to last night’s conversation and sighed. “She wouldn’t care.”

“Your father wouldn’t be happy.”

Anatole bit his lip. That much was true. His last meeting with Vasily had been a less-than-pleasant one, to put it nicely, and the memory didn’t sting any less two years later.

It was ironic and almost a little comedic, he thought, that of all the potentially scandalous things he had done, it was something as innocent as kissing that had landed him in hot water. He supposed he should’ve been grateful it hadn’t happened sooner. He had been careless, sloppy. It should have come as no surprise that he had been caught, and it should have come as even less of a surprise when the decision was made to have him leave Petersburg. To preserve the family name. To stop the unseemly rumors before they could start.

Aline had wept and pleaded, of course, but Vasily had remained utterly impassive. And so off to Moscow he had gone, but not before cramming his most prized possessions into the one carpetbag he had been allotted.

There hadn’t been much to pack. The violin, which he hardly played nowadays; the letters he and Hélène and Ippolit had exchanged during his brief, uneventful deployment to Poland; the little silver statuette of Danali that his parents had given him in celebration of her settling. All the last scraps and remnants of his idyllic Petersburg childhood and adolescence.

Having him come and live here had been Hélène’s idea. If she hadn’t been so amenable to it, so insistent on it, he wouldn’t have put it past Vasily to have shipped him to the front line, nor would Pierre have tolerated a scoundrel under his roof had she not re-spun the whole affair into something more mundane: blown allowance, the family rubles wasted on women and wine. A smaller scandal to cover the more offensive one. It was brilliant and terrible, as her ideas always were, and it made for a far more palatable story—one that had kept him from being run out of Moscow as well as Petersburg, at least.

Ah, well. It could have been worse. He was alive, and he had Hélène and he had Pierre’s wealth at his disposal, and for now, that was all he needed. Life would go on. It always did. And since Anatole was neither a self-pitier nor the sort to dwell on the past, he decided to push the whole matter to the back of his mind and distract himself by tracing the patterns in the brocade of his bedding.

A minute or so later, he heard floorboards creaking and groaning in the hallway as Hélène made her way upstairs. The footsteps stopped at the landing, and even though his door was open, she knocked at the frame before poking her head in.

“Tolya, darling, can we talk?”

“No, thank you,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m not receiving visitors at this hour.”

She stepped into the room anyway. Though there was no doubt in his mind that she hadn’t slept at all since the night before, she had coiffed her hair and donned her Sunday best. Dahanian followed behind her, walking so softly and quietly he may just as well have not been there at all. “Please? You said it yourself. It’s been ages since we’ve spoken to each other alone.”

“Wouldn’t you rather speak with Fedya instead?”

Hélène looked surprised and mildly affronted. “No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

Anatole glared at her and rolled over so that his back was facing her.

“May I sit?”

He shrugged petulantly. “It’s your house.”

“It’s your room.”

When he didn’t respond to that, she sat down on the edge of the mattress, and he pulled his feet up to make room for her. Dahanian crawled onto the bed after her and leaned against the footboard. They sat together in silence for a moment, before Hélène cleared her throat and said, “I think I owe you an apology for the way I behaved last night.”

Anatole turned back to face her with an expression that made it all too clear he fully agreed with her.

“I know that you were only upset,” she continued. “And it _is_ hard. I should be more sensitive.”

“You should,” he said quietly.

Hélène took one of his hands in her own. She gave it a reassuring squeeze, three pulses in rapid succession. Their secret code, their inside signal, ever since childhood. Anatole hesitated, but returned it after a few seconds.

“Still friends?” she murmured.

He smiled. It was impossible to stay angry at Hélène for long. He had never been any good at holding grudges anyway. “Of course.”

She leaned forwards and kissed his temple. “Good.”

Danali curled herself along the crook of Hélène’s wrist, resting her little head against the pulse-point there. Anatole expected Hélène to brush her off and scold them both again, but instead, she sighed and scratched Danali between the ears. Something warm and comforting blossomed in his chest—a tidal wave of _home_ and _love_ and _family_ —and he knew she must have felt it too, because she smiled that small, sweet smile she reserved only for him, and Dahanian purred and swept his tail back and forth contentedly.

This, Fedya had never done. Not with him. Not with anyone but Hélène. It was perplexing and maddening all at once.

“I was planning on paying the Rostovs a visit today,” Hélène said, before he could sink into a cloud of misery. “After all, it would only be proper to invite them to my soirée.”

Anatole’s eyes snapped wide open. “Oh?”

“You seemed quite taken with dear Natalya. I thought I ought to give you two the chance to become better acquainted. She can see Moscow in all its grandeur.”

He laughed. Almost a giggle. He couldn’t help it. Though it felt like years had passed since the opera, he could still recall with perfect clarity how Natasha had stared at him as if he were some unearthly creature, as if she could hardly believe her eyes. Shy, but with an undercurrent of boldness, and all the more enticing for it.

If she had thought he hadn’t noticed the way her eyes had drunk him in like fine wine, then she was sorely mistaken.

“Oh, she was lovely, Lena,” he sighed. “An absolute angel.”

Hélène smiled and smoothed a cowlick back from his forehead. “She certainly seemed like a charming young girl. Perhaps you should write and invite her personally.”

Anatole’s smile wilted a little at that. He had written a love letter exactly once in his life, several years ago, as a foolish, pining adolescent back in Petersburg. One humid summer night, he had sat down at his bureau and poured out his heart, agonizing for hours over every word, penning in romantic prose, French endearments, graceful curlicues. He could no longer remember what it was he had written, or even who he had written it to, only that it had never been delivered, because no sooner had he set down his pen than Hélène ripped the paper from his hands, took one look at what he had written, and promptly dissolved into hysterical laughter.

“Tolya, my dear,” she had said, wiping her eyes, “this is absolutely atrocious.”

He had burned the letter out of embarrassment right then and there and resolved to never pick up a pen and paper again. He hadn’t since.

“You know how dreadful I am with words,” he said, his cheeks flushing hotly at the memory.

Dahanian purred, as if in agreement, and wrinkled his nose.

Hélène laughed. “I’ll have Fedya write for you, then.”

There was no need to question whether or not Fedya would agree to this. She said it with such confidence, Anatole found himself believing it. If Hélène had declared it, then it would be so.

“That would be lovely,” he said, idly running a hand down Danali’s back. “Thank you, Lena. I appreciate it.”

* * *

 

Early Sunday morning, Natasha sat down with a pen and a stack of paper to write Andrei a letter.

At home, all she had had was a squat little davenport desk squashed into the corner of the room, and it was such a tight squeeze she could hardly push her chair out without bumping into the frame of the bed. Marya’s house may not have been as grand as the Rostov estate, but Natasha’s new room had considerably more breathing space, and the lovely mahogany bonheur-du-jour (a relic from Marya’s youth, still in pristine condition) stood not against the wall but squarely in the center of the room, where the sunlight streaming through the window warmed her through until she hardly needed her dressing gown at all. She wore it anyway, knowing that once she moved from her cozy spot, the coldness of the house would descend upon her again and freeze her to her bones.

Adrastos fluttered up from the desk and landed on her shoulder, affectionately tugging on a stray lock of hair. “What do you suppose you should say?”

Natasha tapped her chin with the barrel of her pen. She heard rustling in her ear as he shifted his footing, and she turned to him with a cross look. “I can’t concentrate if you keep moving like that, you know.”

“Sorry,” he murmured, and hopped off her shoulder and onto the desk.

 _Dearest Andrei,_ she wrote, after a long while.

“Now, that’s a start,” he said.

“Hush, you.”

 _Do you miss me, darling?_ she continued. _Are you lonely? Are you sleeping well?_

Natasha almost laughed. Sleeping well? What on earth was she thinking? He was at war, for Christ’s sake. Sleep was probably the last thing on his mind. Trivial matters, for trivial people.

She tossed this letter into the wastebasket and set to work on the second. Another fresh page, a new start: _Dearest Andrei_.

Her hand moved jerkily, clumsily, and splattered ink across the page where the nib had begun to trail. Natasha sighed and wiped the ink-stained side of her hand on the paper before crumpling it into a tight ball and tossing it in the wastebasket, only to find that the ink had leaked through to the page beneath.

“This is impossible,” she huffed.

It was pathetic. Poor Andrei was probably in a trench somewhere, and cold and damp and snowed under, if—God forbid—they hadn’t already taken to the battlefield. Natasha sniffed, and her eyes welled with tears. She had to be strong. For him. Surely she could manage one measly little letter.

“Oh, Tasha,” Adrastos sighed, leaning his head against her wrist.

“I’m alright,” she said, through the lump in her throat. “I’m only being silly again. You know how I am.”

He seemed ready to say something in response, but before he could, Marya bustled past the doorway with her coat draped over her shoulders. Natasha wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dressing gown. She couldn’t let her see. Marya would only pry, force her to talk about it, which would upset her even more.

“I’m off to church with Mary Bolkonskaya,” she announced, stopping at Natasha’s doorway so that she and Salman could preen in front of the mirror on the wall opposite. “Will you two be alright on your own while I’m gone?”

Natasha turned to her with a forced smile. Adrastos fluttered his wings and cooed. “May I join you?”

“Not this time, my dear,” she said primly. “The poor girl’s overwhelmed as it is with everything that’s happening with her father.” Her face darkened. “I’m afraid the Prince is in dire need of prayer. I’ll be stopping by their house afterwards, to send him my regards. Don’t look so glum, darling. Perhaps next week.”

“Light a candle for me, would you?” she said.

Marya smiled proudly. “Of course, my dear,” she said. “Well, I’d best be off now. Mustn’t be late to the service.”

She swept back down the hall without another word, and Natasha sighed.

The clamor of the opera kept ringing in her head. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking of Anatole’s glittering eyes, of his thin hands and trim waist and long legs. It felt almost sinful to think of him in this way, but the more she pushed the image away, the more she was distracted by the minute details of the memory.

Natasha shook her head, as if clearing the fog from her eyes, and turned her attention back to the letter, forcing herself to focus.

 _Dearest Andrei_ , she wrote again. _My heart aches as I wait for your return, and I feel as if a small part of my soul dies every minute we are apart. When will I see you again? Please come back to me quickly, as quickly as you possibly can. I love you so deeply and I miss you so sorely, love of my life, my stars and my moon, my darling Anatole_ —

Natasha froze. She stared down at what she had written. _Anatole_. _Anatole_ , and not _Andrei_. The nib of her pen hovered at the end of the _e_ , where it left a garish and slowly-growing blot of ink.

Adrastos hopped back up onto her shoulder and nipped her earlobe, as if to chastise her. “ _Tasha_.”

“It was a mistake,” she hissed. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

It didn’t have to. She wouldn’t let it. Before he could sneak in another word edgewise, she tore the letter in half, then in quarters, then in eighths, and resolved to later toss it into the fireplace. The words— _his name_ —would burn away, and with them, those terrible thoughts.

Sonya’s footsteps creaked up the stairs and down the hall, and she stuck her head through the doorway with a candle held under her chin. “Still writing?”

Natasha allowed the pen to clatter back to the desktop. “No,” she sighed, and turned around in her seat to face the door. “The words are escaping me today, I’m afraid.”

Sonya smiled, like a cat that had swallowed a canary. “I was wondering if you’d like to join me for a little game.”

“Pardon?”

“It’ll take your mind off of things. You’ve been writing all morning and I can’t bear to see you so glum-looking.”

Natasha finally relented, and allowed Sonya to lead her out to the corridor, to the mirror on the wall. With the curtains drawn and the gas-lamps snuffed out, the room lay almost entirely in darkness, save for the candle Sonya held. Beneath the mirror there was a little demi-lune sideboard. Tobery jumped up onto the ledge, curling his tail around the drawer handle, and looked up at them with a smug, lopsided grin.

“Here we go,” said Sonya.

“What is this?” Natasha said, vaguely amused. “Are we going to hold a séance?”

Tobery mewled, like a laugh, as if he and Sonya had shared an inside joke to which Natasha and Adrastos were not privy.

“Not quite,” Sonya said, and she placed the candle on the sideboard when the wax began to drip onto the carpet. In her other hand she held a mirror, this one smaller than the one mounted on the wall, and angled it so that it stood upright behind Natasha.

Natasha looked again and saw a long row of candles stretching back into the depths of the two mirrors. There stood she and Sonya and their dæmons, reflected and repeated endlessly down a narrow, dark hall, until they grew so small and dim she could no longer make them out.

“Now, tell me what you see,” said Sonya.

The corner of Natasha’s mouth quirked up into a cheeky grin. “Well, I see my face, and I see Adrastos, and I see you and Tobery and—”

Sonya laughed. “Oh, hush. You’re being silly. Look closer.”

“What am I supposed to see?”

“Your future,” she said, her eyes glittering in the candlelight. “They say if you look into the mirrors—”

Natasha turned around. “I beg your pardon.”

“—you’ll see a coffin or the man you’ll marry.”

Adrastos’s head shot upright. Natasha’s eyes widened. “Is this witchcraft?”

“It’s only a game.”

She shifted uneasily regardless, combing her fingers through her hair. “I don’t think Marya would approve of this.”

“Why do you think I waited till she was gone to suggest it?” Sonya sighed and lowered the mirror a tad. “There’s no harm in it, Tasha. It’ll be fun.”

“If you say so,” Natasha murmured.

Sonya raised the mirror again, and Natasha turned back to the one on the wall. A shape began to emerge from the darkness. She narrowed her eyes, leaning forwards until her nose almost brushed against the glass. Adrastos came to a nervous perch at her shoulder.

“I think…” she murmured, “Oh, Sonya, I think I see something!”

Sonya’s face lit up. Tobery pressed one paw to the mirror. “You do?”

“If only it wasn’t so dark.”

“Tell me what you see.”

Slowly, the image sharpened until she saw a person, neither obviously male nor female, lying flat on their back and motionless.

“Something— _someone_ lying down,” Natasha said. She inhaled sharply. “Sonya, I can’t see their dæmon.”

Sonya’s eyes widened . Her hold on the mirror tightened. “You’re joking.”

Natasha shook her head. “I…I don’t know. It’s so dark I can barely—”

“Is it Andrei?” she breathed.

It was impossible to tell. Natasha could hardly make out a silhouette, never mind a face. “I don’t know. It’s too dark to…”  

Her voice trailed off. Somewhere in the blurry gloom of the mirror, in the dim square at the very corner of her vision, she saw, for the briefest of moments, a flash of white. The candle flickered and threatened to extinguish.

Natasha blinked, and golden particles of light, as small and scattered as dust, danced in front of her eyes. Was it the warped, dimmed reflection of Adrastos she had seen? The subtle flash of a feather, oddly-angled and obscured by the darkness? Or perhaps—the thought struck her with a pang of longing and hope—it had been Eulalia.

But then her mind began to drift, against her will, back to the opera. To Anatole and his dæmon, the little white ermine, quiet and curious and curled around his neck. Had it been Danali she had seen, then?  

Natasha’s cheeks burned hotly. No, that wasn’t right. That wasn’t proper. He shouldn’t have been following her into her thoughts. She shouldn’t have let him.

But when she looked again, the figure was gone, and all she could see was her own reflection staring back at her.

“I don’t like this,” she said, her voice wavering.

Sonya frowned and touched her arm. She lowered the mirror to the sideboard. “It’s only a game, Tasha. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Natasha set the candle aside and turned away from the mirror. Something heavy and cold weighed against her chest. She heard Adrastos ruffling his feathers uneasily as he adjusted his footing. “It’s alright,” she said, more trying to convince herself than Sonya.

“Tasha—?”

“Could we turn on the lights again?”

Sonya nodded and walked to the far end of the hall to fling the curtains open, and the room was flooded with light, pale golden with the sunrise. The gas-lamps went next, and soon the corridor was filled again with that familiar honeyed glow she had come to know so well in Moscow.

Natasha allowed herself a sigh of relief. There was no reason to worry. It was only a game, after all, and a silly one at that. Parlor tricks and illusions. Her mind was playing tricks on her, making her see things that weren’t there.

“Better?”

She nodded. “Better.”

“Are sure you’re alright?” Sonya asked.

“I really ought to write that letter,” Natasha said, and started back down the hall to her room.

* * *

 

Fedya adored Hélène. He truly did. Had adored her since the day they first met, and God help him, probably would until the day he died.

That did not mean, however, that there were not times he had to take pause and take stock of just how much trust he placed in her. He knew her far too well to blindly listen to her and believe that what she was doing was always for the best. Actions had consequences, especially when they were carried out for foolish reasons. For selfish reasons. The war had taught him that much.

And yet, he had still written the damn letter.

God only knew why. It was impossible to say no to Hélène, no matter how badly it made his stomach churn. How pathetic. He had no reason to be intimidated. He was a soldier, for Christ’s sake. An infantry captain. He had led scores of men to the battlefield, through bullet-streaked air, through smoke and gunpowder and the echo of cannons. He had been shot at, bayoneted, and had shot and bayoneted in return. It didn’t stand to reason, then, that he should be so easily swayed.

Perhaps that was why he had come to church, then. To salvage the scraps of his own dignity. To ease his guilty conscience. It was a small mercy, he supposed, that Hélène had decided not to attend—rare, given the social status she had worked so hard to cultivate—and he briefly wondered what sort of excuse she would concoct for her absence.

“Pierre was feeling most unwell,” he imagined her saying, later on, at one of her soirées, when she would no doubt be questioned about the matter. “I simply couldn’t leave his side. You understand, of course.”

Anna Pavlovna would love that, the gossipy old bat. Hélène was the darling of Moscow’s elite, despite some of the unsavory rumors about her, and there was nothing more endearing in their eyes than dear, sweet Countess Bezukhova trying her best with her awkward, misanthropic husband.

The other attendants quickly began to file into their usual places, all in their Sunday best. In the first pew he saw Marya Dmitrievna in a somber maroon dress, her horrid dæmon perched on her shoulder. At her side was the small, mousy-haired figure of Princess Bolkonskaya, dressed in black. Her dæmon was a little furry creature, a shrew or a vole, perhaps, but he was too far away to see properly, and Fedya had no desire to approach either of them. He slid into a pew near the back instead and tried to focus on the service.

This was more difficult than he had anticipated. The sermon seemed to last for years, and, try as he might, he couldn’t force himself to pay attention. Not when last night’s conversation kept running through his mind. Though he knew it was improper, his eyes began to wander about the nave, taking in the beautiful frescoed dome of the ceiling, the glittering marble and gold leaf, the candles and icons and incense, and then shifted to his fellow attendants, just as gilded and sumptuous as the iconostasis itself.

Fedya bit down a twinge of resentment, and suddenly he was all too aware of the frayed hem of his uniform jacket and the worn, too-polished leather of his boots. What had he been thinking, coming here? What was he to these people? A lowly peasant. A trespasser in their midst.

Several pews ahead, almost at the corner of his vision, he saw a slender young man in a military jacket with a brilliant shock of white-blonde hair. His heart stopped for a moment.

Oh, Jesus Christ. No. It couldn’t be.

Then the young man shifted slightly, bowed his head, and Fedya’s heart sank in relief.

It wasn’t him. The posture was too formal, the body language too stiff, the jacket too ill-fitting. Fedya shook his head wearily. Anatole was creeping into his thoughts too, now. How ridiculous. How utterly absurd. As if he would ever see fit to drag his lazy, indulgent self out of bed and come to church. Hell would sooner freeze over.

“Fedya,” Samira murmured, nudging at the crook of his knee, so quietly he almost missed it altogether.

The sound of her voice snapped him out of his head. Fedya realized, with a hot flash of embarrassment, that he was still standing, and that the rest of the church had seated themselves.

He sat down, his face burning, silently cursing Anatole and his dopplegänger. Was this his punishment, then? Mind games and mirages?

Perhaps this would all be for the best. Hélène’s plan was terrible, but, admittedly, there was a twisted kind of logic to it that made his stomach turn, and the worst part of all of this was that he didn’t entirely disagree with her. The truth of the matter was that Anatole was going to hurt himself, irredeemably ruin himself, without intervention. He just didn’t know when to draw the line, nor did he seem to care. It was rare to encounter someone who so completely lacked any sort of introspection. It was rarer still for Fedya to tolerate it, much less find it amusing, _enticing_ , in its own odd way.

He could still remember the warm glow that had shot through him when he had first kissed Anatole, then the sick rush of dread that had immediately followed, once he had realized what he had done.

It was one thing, to sleep with another man. There was a war going on, and they had been lonely and cold and desperate and drunk out in the Polish front. But feeling something about it was an entirely different matter. It was wrong, and sick, and the worst part of all of it was that he kept running back.

Anatole had been right. He was irresistible. Him and his sister both, damn them.

Fedya found himself rising and sitting as the crowd did. He was hardly paying attention anymore. All the while, his lips never moved. Not for the songs, not for the prayers. His mind had better, more important places to be.

He lit three candles after the service. One for his mother. One for his sister. One for himself and the letter that was burning a hole in his pocket. How easy it would be, he thought, to take it out, hold it up to one of the candles, and watch it blacken and curl into ash. It was cowardly and petty of him, and he hated himself for even thinking it.

No. He had to go through with it.

All things considered, this was a merciful solution. Far more merciful than letting Anatole crash and burn. And after all, Fedya rationalized, it wasn’t as if anyone was really going to get hurt. He had seen the way the Rostova girl had gawked at Anatole at the opera. She was just as infatuated as he was, even if she didn’t know it yet. All she needed was a little nudge in the right direction.

Fedya could picture it now: the dashing prince and the darling countess, running off together into the sunset. It would be fodder for Anna Pavlovna’s gossip circles for years to come, but it was a nice, charming story, the kind that people would titter over without _really_ disapproving of. A perfect ending, no loose threads, and everyone—except, perhaps, Bolkonsky and Dmitrievna—would be happy.

He had to give Hélène credit. She was a brilliant tactician whose talent was entirely wasted in ballrooms and opera houses and on the likes of those high-society twits. Her mind would have been better suited to the battlefield.

Fedya sighed as he lit another candle. This one for Anatole. Anatole and his unrepentant, irreverent soul.

As he left the church, he felt lighter, somehow, despite everything. Even Samira carried her head higher, as if the knot of tension between them had been knuckled down, pressed into something more calm and peaceful that he couldn’t quite name. It was a sensation he hadn’t felt in a long time—probably not since before he had met the Kuragins.

“I’m glad we came,” she said.

Fedya stroked at the scruff of her neck. He felt a soft rumbling as she hummed in the back of her throat. “Me too, Samasha.”

The air was crisp and cool, but no longer biting. Fedya straightened the collar of his jacket and turned down an alley. It was a longer walk to his flat this way, but the main streets were busier, and there was nobody here to interrupt him or his thoughts.

With the marked exception of Samira.

“Are you going to help her?”

Fedya paused. He had stepped in a puddle, the remnants of yesterday’s snowfall, and the muddy water had sloshed over the leather of his boots. He was going to have to polish them again. It was odd, he mused, that something so trivial would bother him so much, especially given the circumstances. “I don’t know.”

Samira tilted her head to face him. “Do you want to?”

His hands tightened at his sides, curling into fists. “I don’t know that either. It’s a terrible plan.”

“It is.”

Fedya sighed. “She might be right though, all the same. It’s better than the alternative.”

“But that’s not what you want, is it?”

He didn’t want this. He knew that this was wrong. He had scoffed at men who waxed poetic about their lovers, who idolized them, who were convinced that they could do no wrong. Was he really any better than them?

Fedya swallowed heavily. Samira was his dæmon, an extension of his very soul. Since birth, they had shared every thought, every emotion, every twitch and tremor and hope and fear. There were no secrets between them. There was no need for reservation or propriety, and yet it felt all too revealing.

A moment of silent understanding passed between them. Samira lowered her head and murmured, “Ah, well. Let’s not speak of it anymore.”

They walked back to his flat in silence. It was twelve o’clock on a beautiful, clear Sunday, and Fedya felt as if a small part of him had withered and died back in the church.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! We love ourselves some feedback, and comments/ kudos are super appreciated!


	6. Charmante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha receives an important letter. Fedya and Pierre deeply regret becoming entangled with the Kuragins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you like, check out our other ongoing works 'Either Very Clever or Very Stupid' and 'On the Lam'!

At around two o’clock in the afternoon, seeing that Marya still had yet to return from her excursion, Sonya retreated to her room for a nap.

“I suppose it’s a good thing we didn’t go with her after all,” she had called down the stairwell. “I never imagined church services would take so long in the city! We’d’ve spent the whole day genuflecting. Imagine that, Tasha. Up and down and up and down like a flock of headless chickens.”

To which Tobery had let out a little mewl that could have been either one of amusement or agreement, and because Marya wasn’t home to see and be offended, Natasha hadn’t bothered to cover her laugh with her sleeve. But now that Sonya was fast asleep, Natasha was entirely alone in the sitting room with nobody but Adrastos to keep her company, which hardly counted as company at all.

“Why are you so glum?” he clucked.

Natasha frowned. “I’m not glum.”

“You certainly look it. If you keep scowling like that, your face might never go back to normal.”

She rolled her eyes, and Adrastos fluttered off of her shoulder and onto the side table, where a medley of assorted trinkets had been crammed together until the tabletop was all but invisible beneath the lacquered matryoshka dolls and pewter tea holders and khokhloma boxes and spun-glass figurines and enamel diptychs. It was all very beautiful to look at, but like the rest of Marya’s house, which had once seemed so new and exciting, it had now become familiar to the point of mundanity.

Natasha sank back onto the sofa with a bored huff. She watched as the hands of the mantel clocked ticked on and on like a metronome— _tick, tock_ ; _tick, tock_ —and listened for the scuffling of the maids’ footsteps as they milled about the servant’s passages. In the corner of the room, the fireplace was crackling, and she could feel its heat warming her face.

The letters had burned quickly. Their ashes were probably still drifting up the flue, up the chimney, out into the cold Moscow air.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Adrastos.

“Nothing.”

She had always fancied herself something of a good actress, but he knew her too well. Or perhaps her frustration had begun to boil over and outwards, and he could feel it roiling in him just as she felt it in her.

“Put him out of your mind, Tasha,” he said gently. “It’s not worth it.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I never said you did. But it’s not proper. Think of Andrei.”

“I’ve not done anything wrong,” she repeated. “I haven’t approached him. I haven’t pursued him. I haven’t broken faith with Andrei.”

“The letter—”

“Meant nothing.”

He shifted his weight unsteadily, quirking his head in that odd, almost mechanical manner that all birds moved with. “Do you miss him?” he said quietly.

Natasha drew her knees up to her chin. She felt small and childlike, suddenly vulnerable. “Terribly.”

“He’ll be home soon. Then you can put this whole affair out of your mind.”

“Can I, though?” She ran her fingers along the threading of her shawl. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to.”

“It’s only because you’re lonely, Tasha. Once you have him in your arms again, once the wedding’s done and through, you’ll feel differently.”

Natasha frowned. As much as she wanted to believe him, there was something willfully oblivious in his words, something almost naïve. But she wasn’t ignorant. She had eyes that could see, ears that could hear, and a mind that could piece it all together, that could just as easily drift and wander and find itself lost in terrible places, with terrible feelings that she wasn’t meant to feel. Too easily, in fact.

It would have been easier had she never gone to the opera, had she never come to Moscow in the first place.

“He was so terribly handsome, though,” she murmured distantly. “You don’t forget a face like that.”

Or eyes like that. Or a voice like that. Or hands like that.

“Who?” said Adrastos. “Andrei?”

“Him, and the other one, too. The both of them. A shame, isn’t it? That you’d have to choose just one?”

“Tasha.”

Natasha threw her shawl down angrily, across the armrest. “There’s nothing wrong with it,” she said. “I’m allowed to think thoughts, aren’t I? At least let me have that.”

“You can’t be serious,” he said, utterly aghast. She felt his disbelief and disgust rising in her chest, though she pushed it down.

“I’m not going to do anything.”

“You are thinking of something wrong. Which often lends itself to doing things that are wrong.”

She glared into the fireplace again, at the smoldering remains of the letter she shouldn’t have written. “You sound like my mother.”

“If I do, it’s because you sound like a child.”

Natasha scoffed.

The two of them were startled out of their thoughts when, from the front hall, there came the sound of someone knocking at the door. Natasha turned her head to the front, and Adrastos perched himself on her shoulder.

“That could be Marya,” he said. “You’d best have a look.”

“I know,” she snapped, and started off down the hall.

But when she unbolted the latch, it was not Marya, but Countess Bezukhova, who stood in the doorway.

Natasha blinked. Hélène, if possible, seemed to have grown even more beautiful since she had last seen her. Her dark curls had been swept into an elegant knot at the base of her neck, and she wore a long fur coat that swished at her heels.

“ _Bonjour_ ,” she said, in that lovely, musical voice of hers.

Natasha was too flustered to answer for a long moment. “Countess Bezukhova,” she finally stammered out, though the pause had already stretched out to the point of awkwardness.

Hélène smiled and kissed her on both cheeks. “It’s so lovely to see you again. May I come in?”

She did so before Natasha could even respond. Her dæmon trailed in after her and lay down at her feet.

“Of course,” said Natasha, too late.

“Forgive the intrusion, but I simply had to speak to you.”

“It’s no worry,” Natasha said. She followed Hélène into the sitting room, where the older woman draped her coat over the back of the settee. And then, because it seemed like the appropriate thing to ask and the sort of thing Marya would do, she said, “May I offer you something to drink?”

Hélène waved her down. “You’re very kind, _ma chère_ , but don’t bother yourself. I shan’t keep you occupied for a terribly long time. Truth be told, I’m only here on behalf of my brother. He’s been asking after you.”

“Your brother?” said Natasha. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Tell me, Countess, what is his name?”

“Prince Anatole,” she said sweetly. “I believe you were introduced at the opera?”

The opera. Natasha thought back to the theatre, the unspeakable _something_ she may or may not have seen in the darkness of the box, and she suddenly found it very difficult to meet Hélène’s gaze. She looked down at her shoes instead. “I…well, not quite. It was more a re-introduction.” And then, almost whispered: “I didn’t know you were related.”

Everything about that night still felt hazy and bizarre. Dæmon-touching. Anatole and Hélène, brother and sister.

Adrastos shuddered.

Hélène sank into the loveseat across from the fireplace. She pulled Natasha onto the cushion beside her. “I know how confusing it can get, but you’ll have the family trees of every Muscovite memorized in due time. Shouldn’t take you too long, a clever girl like you. You remind me very much of how I was when I first arrived in Moscow.”

At that, Natasha beamed, and her heart swelled with pride. She had seen nothing that night, she concluded, and even if she had, how could it have been so terrible and frightful when Hélène was so kind and wonderful and charming?

“Thank you, Countess.”

Hélène’s smile was brilliant and contagious. “We’re having a little party at my house in a few days,” she said. The snow leopard crawled into her lap, and she stroked his head. “Anatole was hoping that you would be willing to attend. I’m not sure if he mentioned it to you.”

“No, I don’t believe he did.”

Hélène shook her head indulgently and gave Natasha a long-suffering look of amusement. “He’d forget his head if it wasn’t attached to his neck.”

Natasha giggled into her hand. It was hard to reconcile the suave, confident man she had met the night before with the boy whose older sister had to chase after him. Somehow, it made him seem all the more charming and endearing.

“He wanted to ask you in person, but between you and me, my darling, I think he was too shy to work up the nerve. Although, he did ask me to pass along this note to you.”

Hélène handed her a heavy parchment envelope, sealed with a green wax stamp emblazoned with a _К_. Natasha broke the seal and delicately unfolded the letter.

 _Dear Natalie_ , it began, and she could hardly continue past that first line, because her hands had begun to shake and her heart had started to thunder.

 _Natalie_. Nobody had ever called her that before. There was something new and exciting, almost flirtatious in it. Awfully bold, for a man who was too timid to deliver a note to her in person.

She ducked her head and hoped that the parchment would cover the redness of her cheeks.

 _Dear Natalie_ , she read again, and now it was truly a fight to keep a straight face.

> _I am not a man who often writes letters, nor am I especially graceful with words, so you must forgive me for being forward, but I simply haven’t been able to stop thinking of you. I am not accustomed to feeling this way, but I felt compelled to express how memorable the impression you made upon me was._
> 
> _You have absolutely bewitched me, my darling. When I first laid eyes on you, I could have sworn I’d seen an angel, and you have utterly captivated my thoughts ever since. I hope you’ll allow me the pleasure of seeing you again._
> 
> _Yours, Anatole_

She re-read this last line a good three or four times without fully understanding why. She stared, until the little curlicues and serifs of his cursive began to float off the page and the words no longer made any sense to her.

Natasha sucked in a deep breath and looked up at Hélène, whose eyes glittered with amusement, as if she had been watching her read the letter and laughing silently all the while. “Are you sure this is proper? I am betrothed, Countess.”

“It’s only a bit of harmless fun, darling. Besides, I’ll chaperone you two, if you wish. My husband will be there too, of course.” Natasha hesitated, and Hélène gave her hand a squeeze. “Please come, dearest. It won’t be the same without you. Everyone’s simply ecstatic to meet you. And Tolya won’t stop talking about you.”

Natasha flushed. “Really?”

“You’ve thoroughly enchanted him, darling. You’ll break his heart if you say no.”

 _Enchanted_. What a delicious word. The very thought that she had enraptured him, just as he had enraptured her, sent a thrill of excitement and trepidation down her spine.

Would it really be all that terrible, she wondered, if she wanted to go out and enjoy herself? It wasn’t as if she was going just to see Anatole. She would sleep soundly at night knowing she hadn’t broken faith with Andrei, and if Hélène said that it was alright—Hélène, who had a husband at home and a soldier to escort her to the opera—then it must have been.

Andrei didn’t even need to know.

Marya’s words from the opera ran through her mind again— _She’s not a woman to model your behavior off of_ , _Natalya_. How wrong Marya had been. Seeing Hélène in all her confidence and beauty, Natasha couldn’t help but feel that she was exactly the sort of person she wanted to be. After all, Hélène was out and about, hosting parties and meeting new people, while Marya sat at home knitting, never leaving the sitting room except to go to church. All the wealth and wonder of Moscow at her fingertips and she was _boring_ , and Sonya was boring, and the house was so dreadfully dull that Natasha could hardly stomach it anymore.

It was only fair, then, that she should find a way to amuse herself, when the glitter and glamour of the opera houses and ballrooms were practically calling her name. She was hardly a child anymore—no longer the simple country girl she had been, but a vivacious young socialite, no matter how much Marya still saw her as the shy fifteen-year-old with an unsettled dæmon and neither a thought in her head nor a care in the world.

She heard Hélène’s airy laugh, and suddenly there was a hand under her chin, tilting her head up. “Oh, darling,” she said, almost purring. “You _will_ come, won’t you, _ma charmante_?”

Natasha lowered her eyes and blushed. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything nice enough for a ball. I haven’t been to one in so long, and none of my old things fit me anymore.”

It wasn’t a _no_.

Hélène and her dæmon shared an unreadable look. It should have been rude, that little moment of privacy and exclusion, but when it was Hélène doing it, that hardly seemed to matter at all.

“Don’t worry yourself about it,” she said smoothly. “Let me take care of that. Of course, we’ll have to find something to go along with your dæmon.”

Natasha smiled incredulously. “Really?”

“It’s a costume tournament, darling,” she said, and her skirts unfurled around her as she stood and twirled them through her hands. “And it’s all the rage in the big cities these days. Moscow, Petersburg, Novosibirsk, Yekaterinburg—every fashionably-minded noblewoman has gotten in on it. We’ll have you dressed like a city-bred socialite in no time at all.”

Natasha’s eyes went wide.

“You’re lucky,” she sighed, cupping Natasha’s cheeks. “White will look so charming on you.”

At that, Natasha flushed even deeper. “You’re too kind, Countess.”

“There’s no need for such formality,” Hélène scolded. “We’re friends, you and I, aren’t we?”

Natasha found herself nodding along without even realizing it. She must have been a little too earnest, because the snow leopard purred in amusement, and Hélène’s smile grew another inch or so. “Of course!”

“The dress you wore the other night looked absolutely darling on you. Can you show it to me?”

“Of course,” she echoed, and then, as if in a trance, she led Hélène upstairs to her bedroom, embarrassed to realize that she hadn’t made her bed as neatly as she should have, and that the surface of her desk was still littered with scrunched-up papers and ink stains. She turned to the dresser, hoping Hélène wouldn’t see the mess, and rifled through her things.

The snow leopard padded through the doorway with silent footsteps. His eyes swept across the room, pensive and observant, and he lay down at the foot of her bed. Adrastos turned his head to stare at him.

At last, she came upon the white dress. There was a wrinkle along the skirt, one that she hadn’t noticed until now. Natasha wanted nothing more than to barrel headfirst into the dresser, lock the door behind her, and never come out again.

“Here it is,” she said.

Hélène smiled that beautiful, charming smile of hers, and placed a hand on Natasha’s shoulder. Her skin was cold to the touch, or perhaps it was because Natasha was burning up. “ _On_ you, dearest.”

Natasha scurried behind the folding screen. Adrastos turned away out of modesty as she unbuttoned down her back, and then, with hurried, trembling hands, fumbled at the clasp until it gave. The skirts and petticoat pooled at her feet, sun-yellow and periwinkle against the burgundy of the carpet. She slipped the white dress over her head.

“Are you nearly ready to come out?” Hélène called.

Shyly, Natasha stepped around the edge of the screen. With one hand between her shoulder blades, Hélène guided, or rather, pulled her along the length of the room to the standing mirror by the armoire. Adrastos alighted on the frame of the mirror, where he observed them with curiosity.

“I quite like it,” Natasha said. She moved one hand to cover the wrinkle as best as she could.

Hélène hummed politely. “It’s a little plain, though. Don’t you think?”

Natasha almost wilted on the spot. It _was_ plain, truth be told, especially compared to the lovely silk gown that Hélène wore, or any of the dresses she had seen at the opera. Natasha’s father had bought it for her for her eighteenth birthday, an expensive, final present before she was to make her debut. Then, it had seemed like the most beautiful creation in all of Russia, and she had stared at it in awe, Sonya and Vera in envy, the first time she had tried it on. Now, however, the very sight of it made her face burn in shame.

Hélène smoothed her hands over Natasha’s shoulders, then over her hips, to draw in the fabric at the waist. Something delighted and mischievous sparkled in her eyes. “No need to look so distraught. It’s an easy fix, my dear. I’ll run by the family seamstress—she’s a miracle-worker, you’ll see—and then I’ll have it delivered here and you’ll be all set.”

“You really think so?”

“I’m imagining feathers,” she continued. “Something light and lovely. A little silver and a string of pearls and—no, I’m getting ahead of myself now.” She spun Natasha around by the shoulders until her back faced the mirror. “Wouldn’t it be so much more fun as a surprise?”

Natasha giggled and placed her hands on top of Hélène’s. “I suppose you’re right.”

“It’ll look stunning on you,” she breathed, running her eyes up and down the length of the bodice. “My God, Tasha, you’ll be the talk of the town.”

Natasha couldn’t help but smile at the diminutive. “You’re too kind… _Hélène_.”

* * *

 

“Must we do this?”

“Appearances matter, Petrushka,” Hélène called down the hall in a sing-song voice.

Pierre sighed and ran his hands down the front of his waistcoat. It was a warm, earthy brown, shot through with strands of gold to match Khione’s fur. For this precise reason, it had taken Hélène the better part of twenty minutes to argue him into it.

“I’ll look ridiculous in this,” he had protested. “ _Khione_ will look ridiculous standing next to me.”

To which Hélène had rolled her eyes and said, in that sickeningly sweet tone of hers which she adopted when she wanted to sound especially patronizing, “It’s a costume tournament, darling. Everyone is dressing up. You two will look ridiculous if you’re the only ones who don’t go along with it.”

And because he had had no suitable response to that, he had resigned himself to the waistcoat, grateful she hadn’t insisted on tossing a pair of fake ears into the mix as well.

Costumes aside, the evening was already set up to be a disaster. It would be one thing, asking him to show his face at a social function, but to expect him to interact with the guests was another matter entirely, one that sent his pulse racing and made his face burn hotly.

How ridiculous it all was. How utterly thoughtless and frivolous. Andrei, his dear, best friend Andrei, was off fighting in a war hundreds of miles away, and here they were in Moscow, playing dress-up and pretending to speak French. Selfish idiots and disloyal Russians, the lot of them.

Hélène brushed past him to stand in front of the mirror above their dressing table. She draped a glittering string around her throat—diamonds this time, not pearls, which must have meant that she was truly looking to impress—and said, “Don’t worry. I ordered plenty of champagne. You don’t even have to remember any of this.”

Pierre frowned, and Dahanian purred smugly as he crawled onto the bergère, reclining his head against the armrest. Khione shot them both an appalled look.  

“We could always tell them I’m still unwell,” he offered.

Hélène turned around to face him with a look of amusement. That, or condescension. He always had a hard time telling the difference with her. “Really, darling, would it pain you that much to speak with another human for once? Surely you’re bored, locked in that study of yours all day.”

“It’s not boring,” he murmured, but she either didn’t hear him or didn’t care enough to listen, because she turned her head back to the mirror and set her attention to rouging her cheeks with powder from her makeup compact.

“It’s been months since you’ve made a proper appearance. People are starting to talk.”

“Talk?” he repeated, running his hands over his waistcoat to smooth out the wrinkles that he had missed earlier.

“Yes. When I was at the opera, Madame Scherer asked how widowhood was treating me. She sounded quite concerned.”

“I didn’t realize.”

“I know that you didn’t.” She snapped the compact shut and replaced it on top of the dresser. “Which is why I’m telling you now.”

“I’m sorry, Lena.”

“We should head downstairs. The guests will be arriving soon.”

Pierre floundered and cast one last glance over his shoulder to the mirror as she tugged at the hem of his sleeve and started off down the hall. “Hélène, I—”

“Don’t be rude,” she said sharply. “We agreed to host this event. It’s only right that we both make an appearance.”

“ _You_ agreed to host this event,” he muttered, under his breath.

Hélène stopped at the top of the stairs. She sighed and pressed her mouth into a thin, hard line. “For better or for worse, we are married.” At the word _better_ , Dahanian’s head shot upright, and Khione grimaced. Hélène ignored them both. “On occasion,” she continued, smoothing a hand over his waistcoat, “that comes with responsibilities. Some of which we might rather not deal with. Heaven knows I’ve shouldered more than my share.”

“Darling, I only—”

“Really, Petrushka, is this too much to ask? For me?”

Nobody was quite as capable of making Pierre feel like a great imposing oaf as Hélène was. His face began to burn again, and he cast his eyes to the floor, thoroughly abashed. “No,” he stammered out, feeling for all the world like a child who had just been scolded.

Hélène kissed his cheek. “Thank you, darling.”

Pierre mumbled something that sounded incoherent even to himself and allowed her to pull him along to the front hall. He thought of the champagne waiting for him downstairs. Surely that would make the evening a little more tolerable— _enjoyable_ , even, if he was lucky. He would show up and smile and wave and play his part. That much, he could manage.

After all, there was no rule saying that he had to stay sober the whole night.

* * *

 

The servants had flung the front doors wide open, and a gust of wind tore into the foyer like the first uninvited guest of the night. It was cold for now, but that would soon change, once the house was filled with the warmth of bodies and drink and dance. And then, after the dancing was through, the great dining hall tables would be laden with their white linen runners and the proper china and the good silverware, and the waiters would serve roast goose and suckling pig, and the evening would be merry and bright, and the party would be a tremendous success, and Hélène would inch her way a little further into the favor of the Moscow elite.

And, of course, if things went to plan, the happy new couple would find each other, and perhaps an out-of-the-way cloakroom or closet as well.

Hélène and Pierre loitered at the foot of the staircase as they waited for the guests to arrive. Dahanian lay curled against the runner at the bottom step, while Khione lumbered back and forth, up and down the hall. It was a testament to Pierre’s unease that she was walking on her hind legs, instead of all fours. The very sight of it filled Hélène with tremendous scorn and amusement.

Pierre checked his pocket watch. “Will there be many people here tonight?” he said.

“The guest list was quite long, if you’ve seen it.”

“I haven’t.”

“It’ll only be the usual crowd,” she said. “Nothing too loud or exciting. Do you remember the Christmas Ball?”

This was a trick question, of course—Pierre, then in the throes of one of his dreadful, sullen glooms, had locked himself away in his study for the duration of the night with the beer casket she had reserved for the dinner and hadn’t come out for a matter of days. He mustn’t have remembered, because his face became confused and he said, very quietly and unsurely, “Not well.”

“It’ll be much like that. Although, the Drubestskoys and the Karagins are in town, and so is Madame Scherer. I do believe they will be in attendance as well.”

“Hélène, darling,” he said, “you can’t expect me to keep all these names ordered in my head. There’s too many of them.”

Hélène looked up at him through her eyelashes. She saw her reflection looking back at her in the lenses of his spectacles, the great bushy eyebrows above the frames and the ruddy cheeks beneath them. If she didn’t know him as well as she did, or perhaps if that beard had been less unkempt and those dark curls combed into neatness, she may have mistaken him for one of the Scholars back in Petersburg.

“It shouldn’t be so difficult for you,” she said. “You seem to have an easy enough time memorizing the names of your poets and saints and prophets and kings.”

Pierre frowned.

“Think of it as another one of your textbooks. It’s very much the same principle. You’d be capable of it, if you decided to leave that study of yours more than once a year.”

“Will Princess Bolkonskaya be appearing tonight?” he said, sounding very much as if he would like to change the subject.

Hélène sighed and ran her fingers over the diamonds on her necklace. “Her father is dying, Pierre. I didn’t think it would be appropriate to invite her.”

Pierre’s eyes widened behind his spectacles, owlike. He and Khione exchanged a nervous glance. “Prince Bolkonsky? I never realized, the poor fellow. Is he—?”

“Not quite yet,” she said. “Marya Dmitrievna has decided to play nurse-maid for the interim. Oh, don’t look so stricken, darling. The Prince is well on in his years. We all knew this was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Poor Andrei,” Pierre murmured, turning his head back to the door.

Up and down the length of the street, they saw a train of carriages and coachmen. They stopped at the front steps, and the first guests of the night began to climb out and make their way to the door. Pierre went stiff with fright. Hélène reached down to intertwine their fingers.

“Just follow my lead,” she whispered, and the guests started in on them.

They swarmed through the doors in an endless parade. There was Boris Drubetskoy and his new fiancée, Julie Karagina, on his arm. In followed the Potemkins, and then the Komarovskys and the Antipovs and the Zhivagos and the Naryshkins and the Yusupovs and countless others, all in elaborate costume, with their dæmons beaming proudly in their arms or on their shoulders or following close behind them. She greeted them all with a dazzling smile, never hesitating on a name or title.

Pierre, meanwhile, blubbered out a clumsy _hello_ every few minutes, but was otherwise mute. If he at least vaguely recognized their faces, their names were completely beyond him, and she was silently grateful that he avoided embarrassing himself further by attempting to remember them. She would tell them he was still unwell, she decided, if anybody questioned her on the matter. Not antisocial, merely lethargic and still a tad under the weather. It did help that his face was flushed and confused enough to be explained away as lingering illness, even if she knew it was only out of frustration.

She pressed a flute of champagne into his hand as a server walked by. “Drink. You need it.”

He obeyed without a moment’s hesitation. Khione blinked in alarm, but her surprise quickly melted away into relief as he drained the glass in one gulp. Hélène wondered how long it had been since he had last had something to drink. Hours? Or had he managed to stretch his sobriety to an entire day?

In stepped Fedya. The drab olive-green of his uniform jacket was unmistakable in the glittering swell of the crowd, all the more distinctive for its drabness, and the candlelight made the too-young streaks of silver in his beard glow. Hélène was slightly disappointed but unsurprised to realize that he was the only guest who had not arrived in costume. The other guests must have realized this too, if the odd stares that he drew were anything to go by.

“Count Bezukhov,” he said in a voice far louder than usual as he and Samira approached them, and before Hélène could formally greet him, he reached out to shake Pierre’s hand. “You’re looking well. It’s nice to see you out and about.”

As if they hadn’t nearly dueled each other in the sitting room not even a week ago. As if Fedya hadn’t practically lived in this house for the past three years.

Pierre blinked, evidently caught off-guard by the bland pleasantness of Fedya’s voice, far less abrasive than the tone he normally took with Pierre. Tentatively, he shook Fedya’s hand. “And you as well, Fyodor.”

Hélène unfurled her fan and allowed it to flutter over her mouth. “It’s been a while since _I’ve_ seen you, Captain Dolokhov.”

“No, it hasn’t,” he said bluntly. She raised an eyebrow, but he had already turned his attention back to Pierre. “The house looks wonderful.”  

Hélène narrowed her eyes.

“Well, that was actually Hélène’s doing, not mine,” Pierre said awkwardly.

He squeaked in surprise when Hélène, in an uncharacteristic burst of affection, draped herself over him, clinging to his arm. “Petrushka was such a help, though. Isn’t that right, dearest?”

Pierre blushed and lowered his head. “No, no, of course—”

“He’s far too modest. Really, I couldn’t have done this without him.”

“Thank you, darling,” he finally managed to say.

Hélène was satisfied with that response. She was more satisfied with the way Fedya’s expression hardened, and then grew suspicious. “I’m just thrilled we’re finally attending one of these functions together. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen him.”

“Yes,” he said drily. “We all know how you hate to be without him.”

She began to toy with her wedding band and the jewels around her throat in a manner that would have appeared innocuous and thoughtless to an outsider. Fedya, however, knew her too well to be fooled, and he narrowed his eyes.

“Did you misread the invitation, Captain?” she said with a simpering grin. “Or did you just forget that this was a costume tournament?”

“Costumes are for actors,” he said coolly.

Hélène let out a musical laugh. “So serious, Captain Dolokhov. You ought to relax. Enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you for the advice,” he said. “Although, I was addressing your husband.”

“Don’t be so rude,” Pierre snapped, in a moment of unusual self-possession. “You’re a guest here, Dolokhov.”

Hélène raised an eyebrow, somewhat impressed and more than a little amused. “Perhaps I ought to speak to Fyodor alone.”

“Hélène,” said Pierre, “you don’t have to—”

“If you’ll excuse us,” she said, and promptly seized Fedya by the crook of the elbow to drag him over to the side of the room, where the crowd was considerably thinner and hopefully less nosy. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.

Fedya regarded her with cool indifference. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Countess.”

“If you’re going to act this way, I really don’t know why you bothered to come at all.”

“You invited me,” he said blandly. “I’m only trying to be sociable. I was under the impression that that was what one was expected to do when in the company of high society.” He raised his eyebrows. “But, of course, what would a lowly commoner like myself know? My sincerest apologies if I’ve offended you and your husband.”

Had they been alone, or had she been in a worse mood, she probably would have fired back with something vulgar and scathing. But snapping at Fedya would only provoke an equally loud reaction, and besides, it would be so much easier, so much more _fun_ and satisfying to hit him where it hurt most. She knew his sore points, and, better yet, had few scruples about exploiting them, especially when he seemed determined to be as unpleasant as possible.

He cast a furtive glance towards the stairs. Hélène smirked to herself. Good of him, to make it easier for her.

“He’s not here yet, you know,” she said.

Fedya blinked, and his brows drew together. “Who?”

“You-know-who. He’s late, as always.”

“Anatole?”

Judging by the look on his face, he must have realized his mistake only a second after she had. Hélène shook her head. “So, you did know who I was talking about.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“That’s such a lie.”

“Of course,” he said. “Everything’s a lie when it’s not what you want to hear.”

A servant bustled past them with another tray of champagne. Hélène snatched a glass and pressed it into Fedya’s hands before he could turn it down. “Oh, come now, Fedya. At least _try_ to look like you aren’t pining.”

Fedya didn’t bother to dignify that with a response and turned his attention to the champagne instead. Hélène could have laughed. It was too easy, really. And by God, was it amusing to wind him up like a piece of clockwork and watch him silently fume.

She smirked. “I wonder what he’s up to now.”

His hand twitched. Almost unnoticeably. “I don’t.”

“Doing his hair, probably. If he’s not still choosing his outfit. He was very excited about tonight, you know.”

Fedya exhaled sharply. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“I don’t. Are you going to keep wasting my time telling things I don’t need to know?”

“He hasn’t mentioned you lately,” she said, ignoring the pointed look of frustration he shot her. “He’s been too fixated on the little Rostov girl.”

“Oh, that mouse?”

Hélène hid her smile with her fan. “I think she’s sweet,” she said, cruel in her amusement, and she didn’t even care. “Pretty too.”

“I didn’t find her particularly memorable. The cousin was prettier, anyhow.”

“I was over at her house the other day. The way she blushes is just _adorable_. I have to say, I understand the appeal.”

“Good for you.”

“I wonder if Tolya would be amenable to sharing.”

Fedya’s grip tightened around the stem of his champagne flute.

“You should have seen it,” she continued. “She practically swooned over your letter. I didn’t know you had such a way with words, you poet.” When he didn’t answer, her smile only grew. “I can’t tell which of them was more excited. They would make such a darling couple, don’t you think?”

“I don’t, actually, as you know,” he snapped. At his feet, Samira flicked her tail impatiently and snapped at the air in a way that wasn’t entirely appropriate for their present company.

“You know,” she said, almost laughing now, “for a moment, when I was reading the letter, I could’ve sworn you’d addressed it to Anatole.”

Fedya’s face went grey and then red. It was a wonder the glass hadn’t cracked in his hands, his grip was so tight. “You have a very active imagination, Countess,” he said.

Hélène lowered her voice. “Don’t worry, _mon chéri_. He didn’t notice. He never notices anything, that boy.”

“There was nothing to notice.”

“ _Il n’y a pas plus sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre_.”

He wouldn’t understand the French, but he would understand the condescension in her words, and that was enough.

“I don’t want to continue this conversation,” he said, his voice hard and dangerous.

“Of course, darling,” she said smoothly. “After all, everything’s a lie when it’s not what you want to hear, isn’t it?”

“Shouldn’t you go make sure your husband hasn’t drowned in the champagne?” he snapped.

Hélène chuckled and kissed his cheek. “I suppose you’re right. Try not to have any fun without me.”

Fedya shook his head as she strode back towards Pierre. Samira paced at his feet, whining, as their eyes flicked towards the stairs, no doubt searching for Anatole. It was almost pathetic to watch. Pathetic, and amusing.

The infamous Captain Fyodor Dolokhov, the formidable assassin, lovesick over an idiot prince who wouldn’t have noticed until it was shouted in his face.

“God help that brother of mine,” she said to Dahanian, and rounded on the nearest tray of champagne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love kudos and comments almost as much as Anatole loves women and wine! If you enjoyed, please consider leaving some!


	7. Champagne & Chandeliers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha is bad at decisions. Hélène and Pierre's marriage is a train wreck and a half.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Be sure to check out our other stuff and leave kudos or a comment if you enjoyed!

Marya Dmitrievna technically hadn’t given Natasha permission to go out. But if you waited on Marya’s permission for everything, as Sonya had quickly become fond of saying, you’d never leave the sitting room, never mind the house.

She waited until the others had gone to sleep before she hailed a carriage on her own and gave the driver the address, which she had never done before, and walked up the front steps to the front door by herself, which she also had never done before.

The seamstress had framed her shoulder blades with paper feathers, delicate and snow-white to match Adrastos’s wings, and two strands of intertwined golden silk ran along the hem, as if in counterpart to the cream of his tail. Subtle touches—a stitch here, a pearl there—but the difference was utterly breathtaking. In fact, Natasha had spent so long admiring the seamstress’s handiwork in the mirror that she had arrived nearly twenty minutes late.

Another five or so minutes were spent loitering at the front door while she tried to work up the nerve to enter unchaperoned  _and_ late. No doubt, they would think she was rude, or ignorant, or backwards, or whatever it was they thought of girls from the country.

But once she stepped into the front hall, Natasha saw that there was no need to worry. The house was bustling with light and activity. Hardly anyone acknowledged her entrance, and she was too transfixed by her surroundings to even notice if they had.

Oh, how beautiful it all was.

Crystal flutes of bubbling champagne lined every table, and chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like diamond teardrops. The flooring here was white marble and it glowed faintly under the candlelight, muted by the darkness of the night where the curtains had been drawn. She could hear the string quartet from their lofty perch on the dais. An area had been cleared in the center of the hall for the dancers, while a swarm of onlookers had gathered around the edges of the room. The whole house seemed to whirl around her in an endless, glittering fractal of light and color and laughter, like the gilded innards of a Fabergé egg.

Her eyes darted around the crowd, desperately searching for a familiar face amid the sea of strangers. Finally, she noticed Hélène, who smiled beatifically and glided over to her.

“Oh, you look absolutely ravishing, my darling,” Hélène said. She drew Natasha into her arms and kissed both of her cheeks. “I knew the dress would be successful.”

Natasha giggled. Adrastos cooed. A warm, content glow rose in her chest, despite the cold leaking in from the front doors. “Thank you for having it made.”

“Of course!”

“And I just love your dress,” Natasha said. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

Hélène grinned as she ran her fingers through the fabric of her skirt, sending ripples of silver through the metallic gauze. It was hemmed with fur, rosetted as if to match to the pattern of her dæmon’s coat, with little blue gemstones and sequins glittering here and there, tucked away between folds of white and cream. New colors and patterns emerged wherever she looked. The overall effect was utterly enthralling, like looking through a Himalayan kaleidoscope, and it made her jealous and dizzy all at once.

Natasha blinked, temporarily stunned, before remembering her manners. “Is Pierre with you? I do hope he’s feeling better.”

Hélène rolled her eyes indulgently. “Oh, he’s around somewhere. I’m sure he’s just greeting our other guests.”

“Would you tell him I said hello? It’s been so long since I’ve seen him, and I—”

At that, almost as if on cue, Anatole stepped out of the crowd. The whole room blurred and then sharpened, as if focusing in on him. Natasha’s breath left her in an instant.

He looked unreal. Like a prince straight out of a fairytale. His hair seemed softer than she remembered it, so blonde it was almost silver, and the fine white cut of his jacket tapered down to a slim waist and then those long, lean legs. Natasha allowed her eyes to linger a little longer than she probably should have, knowing that he wouldn’t notice. Not from this distance, at least.

Hélène caught her eye. “Ah,” she said, smiling. “Here he is. Late, the both of you. How sweet.”

Natasha blushed but was thankfully spared from having to reply when Anatole caught sight of them. His face lit up, and he strode over with all the grace of a ballet dancer.

“Natalie,” he breathed, and she flushed even more deeply at the sound of his voice.

Hélène raised her eyebrows. “No hello for your older sister, Tolya?”

Anatole smiled and kissed her cheek. “It’s lovely to see you too, Lenochka,” he said, but his eyes were still trained on Natasha.

If she had been surprised before to learn that they were siblings, that certainly was no longer the case. Anatole may have been fair and Hélène dark, but the resemblance was unmistakable—the pointed chins, the sharp, wide cheekbones, the full lips, the impish tilt of the brows. Magnificent enough on their own, together, they were overwhelming, almost too beautiful to exist.

Natasha bit down a pang of mixed bewilderment and want. No humans, she thought, had any business being so alluring. For a confused, wild moment, she was certain they must have been fey creatures that she had somehow managed to cross paths with.

But then she saw Danali poke her little head out of Anatole’s collar, and any doubts of his humanity instantly vanished.

Hélène winked at Natasha and placed a hand on Anatole’s arm. “I’d best go check on my husband,” she said. “You two enjoy yourselves.”

And with that, she and her dæmon disappeared into the fold of the crowd, and the room moved around her to swallow her up.

Anatole turned back to Natasha. “Would you like something to drink?”

Her mouth went dry the instant he spoke those words. “Yes, that would be wonderful, thank you.”

He smiled and waved down a server carrying a tray of glasses. “Try this. You’ll love it.”

They clinked their glasses together, and Anatole raised his to his lips. She took sip of the strange reddish liquid. It went down like a shower of bubbles and fireworks, and a peculiar, tingling warmth bloomed in her chest. A foreign sensation, but not an unpleasant one at all.

“This is wonderful,” she said. “What is it?”

“Rovișani. Imported from Hungary,” said Anatole. “It’s one of Hélène’s favorites. Absolutely delectable, isn’t it?”

Natasha nodded and promptly downed the rest of the glass.

“You ought to be careful,” he chuckled, placing her glass back on the tray. “It can creep up on you.”  

The orchestra leapt into a bittersweet waltz, lofty and grand, but tinged with hues of purple and blue around the edges. Natasha almost recognized the melody, tantalizingly familiar and foreign all at once.

Anatole offered her his arm and said, “May I have this dance?”

It was the invitation she had been aching for since she had first arrived.

“Yes,” she said softly, reaching for his shoulder. “I would love that.”

Natasha followed like a woman sleepwalking as he led her out to the middle of the dancefloor. The crowd seemed to part around them, _for_ them. Her head spun dizzily as she breathed in the scent of his cologne, something oddly sweet, almost floral, but intoxicating all the same.

As they pressed together, she was suddenly aware that he wasn’t wearing gloves. It should have been improper. It should have given her pause, should have made her withdraw out of modesty, but instead she found herself grateful for how warm his hand felt against hers, even through the silk of her own glove.

Some small, indecent part of her wished that she wasn’t wearing any gloves either, though she quickly pushed the thought aside before her mind could stray any further, like down the front of his chest to that lovely trim waist, or even further still.

“You’re blood red, darling,” Anatole said, with a bemused look. “Is something the matter?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Nothing at all.”

His hand caressed her cheek, so quickly she almost could have imagined it. It sent shivers racing down her spine.

Four counts of three, rhythmic and enticing. Natasha drew her chin higher and rose to her tiptoes.

“Shall we?” he said.

All she could do was nod and follow his lead.

* * *

 

Nobody bothered to approach Fedya, not that he was complaining. Perhaps it was because other than Pierre, Hélène, and Anatole, he hardly knew anybody here. Then again, the sort of people Hélène mingled with were so nosy that that hardly mattered at all, so his solitude was more likely a consequence of the look of abject resentment on his face and the way he stood off in the corner of the room with his arms folded across his chest, as if daring the other guests to muster up the gall to disturb him while he was in such an ostensibly foul mood. That Samira’s hackles had been raised since he had walked through the doorway probably wasn’t helping things—or _was_ helping them, depending on how you looked at it.

From the musicians’ dais, there came the sound of the conductor rapping his baton against the podium, and the orchestra shifted into something dull and schmaltzy. It didn’t snap him out of his sullen gloom, but it did draw his eyes to the floor, where the crowd parted and began to pair off for the dance.

There in the center of the room was Anatole, silver and slim and just as infuriatingly beautiful as always, Natasha Rostova on his arm, looking utterly, _stupidly_ besotted. Fedya’s hand tightened around the champagne flute he hadn’t realized he was still holding. What nerve. Did she actually think that Anatole felt anything more for her than passing fancy? Was she aware that he would only toss her aside once he found something more glittery and new and exciting?

The dancers rounded the floor like a slow-moving pinwheel, and it wasn’t long before Anatole and Natasha swept past him in a blur of white. They didn’t see him. Didn’t even look away from each other, not to right their bearings, not to take notice of the other dancers or the spectators.

Fedya turned his head away, resisting the urge to scoff. Anatole, he thought, hardly had the right to wear a military uniform. He was no soldier. Just a pretty rich boy whose father had been able to get him an office position. Too soft and slow-witted for the battlefield, hardly even suited for a duel.

Not expendable. Not like Fedya.

It was difficult, he mused with more than a little resentment, to ignore the differences between himself and the Kuragins. They had never learned what it was like to be dependent on good luck, what it felt like to push and fight for everything you had. Nothing made that more obvious than the fact that while Anatole wore his jacket and medals like a costume, Fedya had had to stitch the fabric of his together in several places where bullets and knives had torn through the wool.

His eyes kept drifting. He couldn’t help it. Though he tried to quash it down, he felt his rage building slowly as he watched the two of them dance. Stupid, foolish Anatole, obsessed with stupid, foolish Natasha Rostova. Fedya wanted to shake him. Wanted to put his hands around that stupidly handsome neck of his and wring out all the selfishness and idiocy and naïveté.

Anatole would never understand. He couldn’t. And he looked so happy and thoughtless and beautiful that it only made Fedya loathe him more and more with every second.

He saw Hélène in the corner of the room, laughing with Boris Drubetskoy. _Engaged_ Boris Drubetskoy, whose fiancée had probably been left to wander the hall alone. Fedya glared at her, but she ignored him and tossed her head back in mirth and swatted Boris lightly on the chest. His eyes darted back to Anatole and Natasha, equally as oblivious.

Fedya sighed. “She can’t possibly think this is going to end well."

“You did agree to it,” said Samira.

“I agreed to help Anatole,” he seethed. “I didn’t agree to this goddamn circus.”

“But you did it because Hélène asked you to.”

“And I shouldn’t have.”

Saying it out loud somehow made it sting all the more, made it true, made Fedya see what he hadn’t been able to before. This wasn’t for Anatole’s good, this charade, this _farce_. She was a sad, lonely, bored woman whose only entertainment came from manipulating those around her, and like an absolute idiot, he had allowed himself to be played into her hands.  

By the both of them, at that, which was the most infuriating thing of all. Hélène’s affection for him began and ended where her dirty work did, and what had he been to Anatole but the latest in a chain of spineless fools he had strung along? They didn’t love him. They didn’t love anyone but themselves.

Yesterday, his mind and his heart had been at war. Now he knew what he wanted.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said.

Samira knew him too well, always knew his next step before he did, and she dug her claws into the floor with a low whine. Fedya knew she wouldn’t fight back if he pressed on. So he did, turning back to the hallway with the half-empty glass still clutched in his hand. There came that painful tugging that accompanied the separation of a person and their dæmon, but he fought against it, pressing until it must have hurt her too, and a moment later he heard the scuffle of her paws against the parquet as she followed after him.

“You shouldn’t do this,” she growled. “You’re going to regret it.”

“I don’t care,” he said, and drained the rest of his glass.

A throng of guests greeted him in the front hall, and he pushed against the flow of the crowd as he all but fought his way to the door. They stared at him with suspicion and disregard. A commoner—a decorated soldier, granted, but one distinctly lacking in a noble title—was a rare enough sight at these events, but one trying to leave before dinner had even been served must have been rarer still. He felt their eyes on him, and his face burned in shame and fury.

It wasn’t enough, however, to convince him to forget the whole thing and go back inside.

One of the porters handed him his coat. Fedya shucked it on wordlessly and pressed five kopeks into his hand. A pittance, no doubt, compared to the sort of tip he was used to receiving with the Bezukhovs’ typical company.

Samira avoided meeting his gaze as they took off down the street. The sound of music and laughter followed him until he reached the bend of Prechistensky Boulevard. He didn’t look back.

* * *

 

Andrei had never danced with her like this.

It was terrible that that was Natasha's first thought, she couldn’t help herself. Anatole’s feet moved nimbly and quickly, his steps flowed with a catlike grace, and all the while he gazed at her with such an angelic, serene look that she almost forgot where she even was.

They slowed as the orchestra reached an éccosaise, not quite at the center of the room but somewhere close to it, and overhead she saw the rising curtains and the descending chandelier, and her head spun with motion even though they were hardly moving at all. He was so close now. Nothing between them, not even an inch of space. His breath ghosted across her cheek. Perhaps if she paused and listened hard enough, she would be able to hear his heart beating in his chest. She almost could already.

“What are you thinking, _chérie_?” he said, in a soft voice.

For the second time that night, Natasha’s mouth went dry. Her throat seemed to have closed of its own accord. _How close we are_ , she wanted to say. _How beautiful you are_. _How frightened I am_.

“Nothing,” she said, after a long, stilted pause.

“There’s no need to look so worried,” he murmured. “We’re having fun, you and I, aren’t we?”

She allowed herself a smile. “Of course we are.”

Anatole’s hand drifted further down her back than it should have. “You look so beautiful tonight.”

No. This was wrong. She shouldn’t have been doing this. She shouldn’t have come here at all. Andrei was far away, and cold and lonely and this wasn’t _right_.

“You’re shaking, darling.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m fine.”

Could she do this to Andrei? Could she allow herself this moment of selfishness? Was it really a crime to grow lonely and discontent? She was only human, after all.

No. The only crime was being forced to decide between these two men, so different in their beauties.

No, she realized with a sudden great euphoria. She didn’t have to choose. There was no decision to be made. It wasn’t one or the other, it was both. This wasn’t the countryside anymore. The world— _this_ world—was so full of beauty and laughter and light, and it was all hers to take, all hers to enjoy, and there was nobody to chastise or restrain her here.

Natasha straightened her back resolutely. The feathers of her dress tickled against her shoulders, and the hem of her skirt lifted as her torso did. She was certain she could have taken off in flight, and they could have danced their way up to the ceiling and out the window and into the cold night air of Moscow. Without any further preamble, she took his face in her hands and kissed him.

Anatole made a small, surprised noise in the back of his throat. The pads of her fingers delicately brushed against the line of his jaw and the sides of his neck. She could feel his pulse thrumming wildly, and she squeezed her eyes shut, suddenly afraid that she had misread him, that he was upset, _angry_ even. That she had been too forward; that she had made a terrible, embarrassing mistake; that he wouldn’t return the kiss; that he would brush her off in disgust. What in God’s name had she been thinking?

But then, a moment later, she felt him softening in her embrace, and that strange, tingling warmth shot through her body again as he leaned into the kiss and cupped her cheek with one hand. He slid his other arm around her waist, pulling her closer until their chests were flush. Fire and lightning coursed through her veins. Her heart battered madly against her ribs, as if fighting for escape. Her fear melted away into relief and something else, something familiar but nameless, something intense and heady that inseparably linked the two of them.

Distantly, she could feel the eyes of the other guests on them. She didn’t care. It didn’t matter. They may just as well have been the only people in the room. In the whole world. Perhaps it only lasted for a moment, but it could just as easily have been an hour. Natasha savored it, wishing for it not to end.

It did, after what felt like an eternity. They broke apart in silence, and Anatole stared at her helplessly, as if bewitched.

“Anatole,” she murmured as he swept his thumb over her bottom lip. “God. I think you were sent to tempt me.”

He laughed at that. Such a beautiful, ringing sound. It filled her with pride and joy, to know she had been the cause of it. “I believe it’s the other way around, Natalie.”

She was still trembling. Was it fear? Anticipation? Excitement? Impossible to tell.

All three, then.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

Natasha almost laughed. Alright? She had never felt more sure of herself in her entire life. The shy, blushing little girl who had entered the house an hour ago was suddenly a stranger to her. She had grown, somehow, in the span of twenty minutes of dancing, into a woman. How uncertain she had been. How timid and proper and meek and self-denying and dull.

Now she knew what she wanted.

“Absolutely perfect,” she breathed. She let her eyes wander again, but now they were unrestrained by propriety.

“Tasha,” Adrastos hissed in her ear. “People are staring.”

“Shall we go somewhere more private?” she said to Anatole, before she could lose her nerve.

Adrastos froze on her shoulder. Anatole’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Of course, darling,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Anything for you. Anything you want.”

“Yes,” she said. She looked up again at him, at those lips she had kissed, and wanted to kiss them again. “I want you.”

His smile was brighter than the chandelier. “I have a room upstairs.”

Natasha nodded, running her thumb along the ridge of bone at his wrist. “Show me the way,” she said, almost breathless, and together they made their way across the room to the darkened hallway and up the stairs.

* * *

 

With Hélène still occupied in conversation with Dolokhov, Pierre had sequestered himself off in the far corner of the room with a glass of champagne and Khione to keep him company, where he had been studiously avoiding human interaction all night.

It had worked, too, until now.

“Count Bezukhov! It really has been too long.”

Pierre’s head turned at the sound of the voice.

A short, middle-aged woman draped in vermilion and black silk hovered at his side. Her eyes were grey, heavily lidded and keen, the sort of eyes you would see piecing you apart over a poker table or through the sights of a pistol from forty paces away. Those eyes unnerved him, but not nearly as much as the sharp, knowing cut of her smile that made him feel as if she were laughing at some inside joke to which he was not privy. Her dæmon, a monarch butterfly, was perched delicately at the crook of her wrist.

She was either Anna Pavlovna or Anna Mikhailovna, but he had no idea which. Granted, they looked nothing alike, but they were both named ‘Anna’, and with their respective inclinations towards mindless gossip and underhanded insults, they may just as well have been the same person as far as he was concerned. Besides, he hardly had the mental energy to bother differentiating the two when he would very much rather have locked himself in his study with his textbooks and perhaps one of the trays of champagne.

“Anna,” he said noncommittally, hoping that she would not be offended at the lack of a proper title. She surely would have been more offended had he said the wrong name, so this probably was his safest bet, even if it made him cringe, even if Khione also recoiled in secondhand embarrassment.

“It’s just lovely to see you out and about. We were all so concerned.” She leaned in a little closer, prompting Pierre to do the same. “Especially after everything your poor father went through at the end. Now, I know a little bout of flu is hardly comparable to consumption, but these things run in the family, you know.”

Pierre’s face burned. He had hardly known his father, so, by all accounts, her remark shouldn’t have stung as much as it did. “Yes, well, I feel much better now.”

“Yes, that’s all very nice. You and your wife are such lovely people, it makes me happy to hear it.”

“Thank you.”

“We missed you at the opera. I suppose I oughtn’t be surprised that a woman as charming as Elena found someone to accompany her to the theatre, but I certainly didn’t expect Captain Dolokhov to escort her.”

“Yes, they’re good friends.”

“Peculiar,” she said pensively, “for a well-established woman like her to befriend an unmarried soldier.”

Pierre had never imagined he would ever agree with ones of the Annas. Well, he supposed, there was a first time for everything. He was mercifully spared from replying when Hélène wandered over and gave her a smile that was as saccharine as it was completely insincere.

“Madame Scherer,” she said, “I’m so _pleased_ you came tonight.”

So, it was Anna Pavlovna, then. Pierre silently thanked Hélène for the distraction and the subtle cue.

Out of the corner of his eye, for the briefest of moments, he saw a flash of white as two of the dancers, indistinct save for the brilliant coloring of their clothing, separated from the crowd and tore across the room to the stairwell. What he wouldn’t have given to have been like them, brave enough to take off running and escape the smothering clamor of the party. Had Hélène not been hovering at his side like a watchful shadow, he would have liked to join them.

“Of course, dear,” Anna Pavlovna said. “It’s so wonderful to see you come into your own as a hostess.”

“Yes, well, I learned from the best,” Hélène said lightly.

They laughed. Looking at the two of them, Pierre couldn’t help but notice the similar too-sweet set of their smiles, the cutting tone of their voices, and he wondered if Pavlovna was just as cold as Hélène could be, once the mask dropped.

“You’re far too kind,” said Anna Pavlovna.

“What were you two discussing?”

Anna Pavlovna’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Oh, nothing of import, darling. Mindless chatter. Have you heard anything from your parents recently?”

God bless Anna Pavlovna, he thought, for asking all the questions he had neither the sense nor the guts to ask.

“Not for a while, I’m afraid,” said Hélène. What she didn’t say was: _Not since my brother was kicked to the gutters_. _Not since I displeased my father by taking him in_. Pierre doubted Hélène had so much as written a letter back home since she had come out to Moscow. Three years, and not once had she ever mentioned a thing about her parents to him. She probably hadn’t even thought of home since Anatole had joined her. Kuragins, it seemed, never left the nest on a good note.

“Such a shame,” Anna Pavlovna tittered. “Your father was inquiring after you the last time I visited.”

“He was, now?”

“Mhmm. Your brother as well, though I don’t believe he’s staying in Petersburg for too long.” This threw Pierre for a loop, until he dimly remembered that Hélène had an older brother as well. Anna Pavlovna lowered her voice. “He’s afraid, I believe. They all are. The _Grande Armée_ will be marching on Poland next, they say. Now, I know your father’s in no condition to be called out to service, but as for Ippolit—”

“Most intriguing,” said Hélène, and she snapped her fan shut with such force that even Dahanian startled.

“Yes, most intriguing, indeed,” Anna Pavlovna said politely.

Her dæmon came to a rest at her shoulder, on the silver brooch that she had pinned through the iridescent fabric of her sleeve. He wasn’t a monarch after all, Pierre realized. He was too small, and the delicate black webbing of his wings was too tightly-knitted, with an extra runner, thin as a strand of thread, crossing the veins by the thorax. He was a viceroy. A difficult and subtle distinction to make. It was hardly proper to stare at someone else’s dæmon so intently, but Pierre’s curiosity, not for the first time, had gotten the better of him.

Anna Pavlovna must have caught someone’s eye from across the room or seen something marginally more interesting than what they had to offer, because she murmured an overly-polite excuse and made herself scarce.

“Miserable old bat,” Hélène said to Pavlovna’s retreating figure.

Pierre let out a laugh at that. Sugar and ice, the two of them. No doubt, Pavlovna was also thinking something vile and insulting about them at that very moment. Awkward Count Bezukhov, with his awkward dæmon and his awkward mannerisms and his awkward conversation. And his snoopy wife, the one woman in all of Russia who could match her pound-for-pound with false smiles and fake sincerity.

 _Good_ , he found himself thinking without even realizing it. _Perhaps next time she’ll know better and leave me the hell alone_.

Hélène was smiling too now, and that, at least, seemed genuine. He had almost convinced himself that the evening didn’t have to be a disaster, and that dinner would at least be a tolerable affair if not an enjoyable one, when she leaned over to him with her eyes still fixed on the dancefloor and asked, “Have you, by any chance, seen where Captain Dolokhov has wandered off to?”

Pierre furrowed his brow. “Not recently, no. Is there something the matter?”

Hélène frowned. “I wanted to speak to him.”

Flushed and giddy and possibly a little overly bold, he said, “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll send a messenger over to his flat tomorrow, if you’d like.”

Hélène sighed and fluttered her fan. “Very well.”

“Was it urgent?”

She turned her head. “Pardon?”

“What you wanted to tell him. Was it something important?”

“Nothing pressing, dear,” she said tersely, and began to fiddle with her bracelet. “I only wanted to speak with a friend. That was all.”

“We could always speak, you know,” he said, reaching for her hand. “The two of us. If you’re feeling bored.”

“No one’s watching us, Pierre. You don’t need to put on this act right now.”

Pierre’s smile wilted at the coldness of her voice. “It wasn’t an act.”

Hélène gave him a tired sigh. “You’ve done well, Petrushka. You’re free to go back to your study, if you’d like. I’m excusing you.”

“Lena, I don’t mind staying with you if you’d like me—”

“I appreciate you helping, but you aren’t needed anymore. I’ll be busy looking for the Captain,” she snapped.

Something in his expression hardened. “I’m sure you’ll see him soon, anyhow,” he said, with equal stiffness. “What with how often you have him over.”

She raised an eyebrow. Dahanian’s head perked up, the way it always did when he was confused or nervous. It could have easily been both, except Hélène’s expression betrayed nothing but annoyance. “Do you have a problem with him coming over?”

“It would hardly make a difference if I did—”

“Pierre, really—”

“—seeing as how you’ve reduced me to being a guest in my own home.”

The fan snapped shut again. A threat, or a warning. “I beg your pardon.”

“He makes me uncomfortable,” he said. “You know that he does. Why does he always need to be in our house?”  

Hélène narrowed her eyes almost imperceptibly. “I would thank you not to speak ill of my friend.”

Pierre snorted and shook his head. He could feel Khione’s worry and suspicion even in the corner of the room.

Her eyes narrowed a little more. “Do you have an issue with what I said, husband?” she said coolly.

It was the champagne talking when he spoke next. The champagne, and the sudden rush of frustration that shot through him at her scowl. “We both know that Dolokhov isn’t a ‘friend’, Hélène.”

A lesser woman would have fallen silent in shock, or would have taken the opposite route and proceeded to fly upon him with outraged insults and profanity. Hélène only laughed and said, “I think you’ve had a little too much to drink.”

“You aren’t denying it,” he said.

“Because I am in no mood to defend myself against ridiculous and unfounded accusations.”

“How convenient.”

"There’s no point to it. Nothing I say will convince you, so why should I bother?”

“Do you honestly even—?”

“I know that I am innocent,” she pressed on, and gestured vaguely to the ceiling with her fan. “The Lord Above knows that I am innocent. Who else must I convince?”

Pierre almost rolled his eyes. Hélène, for all her tutting and churchgoing, was hardly a religious woman, and he himself couldn’t exactly be described as pious.

“Your husband,” he said, through clenched teeth.

Her voice now took on a sardonic flavor. “Is the Almighty Father not a good enough judge of character for you?”

Pierre scoffed.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” She turned away, shaking her head, and watched the dancers as the ecossaise ended and the orchestra leapt into something more lively. “What else would one expect from a man who so openly flirts with heresy?”  

Khione gasped, still balanced on her hind legs, bumped her hip against a vase perched on the side table, and sent it shattering to the ground. Cold dread washed over Pierre. His tongue went numb and heavy in his mouth, and his palms went slick with sweat, and Hélène began to flutter her fan again with a smug little grin.

“I beg your pardon,” he finally managed to sputter out.

“You ought to be grateful,” she said. “If it weren’t for everything I do for you, the Church would already be breathing down your neck. It’s a wonder you were allowed to carry along for so long before I—”

“Stop.”

“Or what?”

He floundered for only a second, but it was enough for her.

Hélène laughed and folded her arms across her chest. “Just as I thought.”

“It’s not heresy,” he said. His hands began to tremble. He clenched them into fists to stop them from sahking. “You’re only saying that because you’re afraid. You don’t understand it, so it frightens you, so you want to cut it out and hide it away. Just like you try cut me out.”

“Keep your voice down. You’re going to make a scene.”

“What have I ever done to make you treat me this way?” he said, his voice raised almost to a shout. “Am I not enough for you? Will I never be able to make you happy? I’ve tried, Hélène, I’ve tried so hard, but I—”

Hélène’s eyes blazed coldly. “People are laughing, Pierre.”

Pierre closed his mouth. Sure enough, when he turned his gaze back to the rest of the room, he was met with scandalized expressions and politely-concealed titters. His face went hot, and he was suddenly all too aware of the booming resonance of his voice, his ungainly girth, and how he stood almost a foot taller than everyone else in attendance. Worst of all, he realized, the orchestra had stopped and he hadn’t even noticed.

“I…” he began.

“I suggest you excuse yourself. Before you make things worse.”

Pierre swallowed past the lump in his throat. Tears burned in the corners of his eyes.

“ _Now_ , Pierre,” she hissed.

He turned on his heel and fled the room, Khione lumbering after him as quickly as her legs could carry her, knocking into guests and upending champagne trays in their wake.

Hélène’s laugh rang out behind them, loud and girlish and utterly false. “You’ll have to forgive my husband. I’m afraid he still isn’t feeling quite himself.”

The crowd murmured in faux-polite assent at that, and the orchestra resumed the beat, but Pierre didn’t hear, for he had already slammed the door to his study shut and locked it, and Hélène’s laugh was still echoing over and over in his mind.


	8. Taboo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Anatole make another very foolish decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! If you like our writing, check out our other fics!

Anatole’s room felt like a sanctuary. Here, the clamor of Hélène’s party was all but inaudible, save for the muffled swell of strings and the low, distant hum of laughter. The curtains had been drawn, though the gas-lamps were still dimly lit, flickering like the soft amber glow of candlelight. It was dark, a far cry from the glitter and luminosity of the ballroom, and somehow all the more beautiful for it.

Natasha wanted to lie there forever with Anatole’s bare chest pressed to her back, his hand stroking small circles along the inside of her wrist, the heat of his body slowly seeping into hers. She could feel his heart beating sure and strong against her shoulder blade. All the world was still and quiet.

She turned around to face him. A peaceful smile curled his lips. Now, up close, she could see that the blue of his eyes was flecked with shards of grey, like the shattered fragments of a mirror. She allowed her eyes to drift, taking in each and every detail, memorizing the map of his face, until she saw something that gave her pause.

There, on the side of his throat and just above the point where his collarbone met his neck, was a bruise, mottled purple and red.

“Did I do that?” she said, brushing her fingertips over the mark. She didn’t remember touching him there, but who knew? Who could have known, when already, the memory of what they had shared had grown so dim and blurry?

Anatole folded her hand in his. His skin was cold but soft, and she traced the creases of his palm with a gentle touch. “No, love.”

She made her voice low and solemn. “Did someone hurt you?”

His mouth quirked into a lopsided grin. Distant, almost bittersweet, and though his eyes were on her, she could see that his mind was elsewhere. “In a manner of speaking.”

Natasha felt a hot rush of anger course through her at the nameless _someone_ who had dared touch him. She wouldn’t let that happen again.

“Does it hurt terribly?” she asked.

Now his gaze returned to her. “How could I feel any pain when I’m here with you?”

She kissed him again, leaning in before he could, and his lips were warm against hers.

“I love you,” he murmured, once they broke away.

Love. Of course he loved her. And of course she loved him back. She loved every fiber of his being with every fiber of hers. They were kindred souls, hopelessly intertwined. Had been since the moment she had first laid eyes on him. How else could all of this have happened?

Natasha brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead. “I love you too.”

Anatole smiled, bright and beautiful, pulled her on top of him, slinging an arm around her waist to kiss her again.

She sat upright, and he lay back with his arms spread across the pillows. He looked at her as if she were the Sun itself. Indulgently, she ran her fingers through his hair, marveling at its silkiness and white-blonde sheen. A beautiful, crystalline moment. He was perfect. _They_ were perfect, so far removed from the rest of the world. If this were all just a wonderful dream, then she would rather die in her sleep than wake up.

Anatole caught her hand and brought it to his lips to brush a whisper of a kiss across her knuckles. “What are you thinking, _mon trésor_?”

“When did you know?” she asked.

He tilted his head in bemusement. “Know what, darling?”

“That you loved me. When did you realize?”

He chuckled and played aimlessly with her fingers. “When I saw you again, at the opera. I’d remembered that you were lovely, but you looked perfect, _unworldly_. I could have sworn you were an angel.”

Natasha smiled.

“And you?”

She worried a thin lock of his hair between her fingers. “It must have been at the opera as well. When I saw you walk in. You went to sit with Hélène and Captain Dolokhov.”

“You saw us,” he said, somewhere halfway between a question and a statement.

“I did.”

“You were staring.”

Natasha thought back to the box, the brief look they had shared, and she lowered her head almost apologetically. “I couldn’t help it. I’d never seen anything—anyone so beautiful. I wondered if I’d ever see something so beautiful again.”

Anatole laughed. “I’m glad Hélène convinced you to come,” he said.

“It didn’t take all that much convincing.” She skimmed her fingers down his cheek, along the line of his jaw, back to the mark on his neck. If she covered it, held her palm over it until it was obscured from view, she could pretend that it didn’t exist. That she had only seen it in her imagination. “The letter was quite enough.”

He smiled and kissed her fingers. “I’m only sorry my words couldn’t do you justice.”

That, of all things, made her blush. She intertwined her fingers with his, hoping he wouldn’t notice the hot flush that crept over her cheeks. “What a flatterer you are.”

“Not if it’s true.”

Danali, as if drawn by his words, crawled over from the dresser to his shoulder. Natasha thought of their meeting at the opera and the banister. How close they had been. Her wrist against his, almost against Danali. Shame and fear shot through her, and she drew her hand back.

Anatole was not smiling anymore. “What is it, darling?”

She could see it all again in her mind’s eye, replaying in vivid detail—the box; Hélène and Captain Dolokhov, arm-in-arm; _him_ , silver in the dark of the theatre; their eyes on each other, hers on them, in a world of their own, beautiful and untouchable. And then, just as clearly as she had seen herself: Anatole reaching down, across the armrest, and the snow leopard curled at Hélène’s feet.

“There was something else I saw that night,” she murmured. “With…with you and your sister.”

Anatole’s eyes widened a tad. A tremor shot through his hand. “Oh?”

Her voice was almost inaudible. “Your dæmons.”

“Oh.”

There was something unsure in his voice now. Something guarded and defensive. Something she hadn’t seen at the opera, not in the box, not at the banister.

“Is it true, then?”

He swallowed heavily and looked away, and that was answer enough for her. Strangely enough, she felt vindication rather than revulsion. She had been right. She hadn’t just imagined it.

Adrastos caught her eye from his perch on the headboard, but he quickly looked away.

Anatole had grown tense beneath her. She gave his hand a squeeze when it began to tremble. “I won’t tell a soul, I promise. I just want to know why.”

He relaxed at that, but only marginally. Natasha smoothed her thumb over the pulse-point on his inner wrist until she felt it slowing beneath her touch. “It’s complicated. I’m not even sure how it started.”

“We always learned that it was a sin,” she said softly, stroking circles against his skin. The hairs on his forearm stood on end, like a cat that had been brushed the wrong way. “That it was immoral. Not even husbands and wives do it.”

Immoral. What did that matter now, after everything else she had done?

Anatole frowned. “That’s such nonsense.”

“The Church says it’s wrong.”

“The Church doesn’t know what it’s like.”

She traced along one of the veins lining his forearm, up to the crook of his elbow, then back down to his wrist, leaving goosebumps in her wake. “How does it feel?” she whispered. “When you…?” Her voice trailed off.

All the tension drained from his shoulders. He had been waiting to hear those words, her curiosity. “Beautiful.”

Natasha inhaled. “Beautiful?”

“It’s the most beautiful feeling in the world. Like holding someone’s soul in your hand. Like you’re one person instead of two.” He turned onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “It’s special. You can’t understand it, not until you’ve felt it yourself.”

Her eyes shouldn’t have wandered. She shouldn’t have found it enticing. But curiosity was more compelling than propriety.

“Do you want to try?” he asked slowly.

The wind rushed out of her lungs. Adrastos raised his head. Had she actually heard that? Or were her ears playing tricks on her now?

“You mean…?”

“Anything you want,” Anatole repeated. “Anything at all. I meant that.”

Natasha curled her hands in the folds of the bedclothes. “The Church says—”

“They don’t know how you make me feel. How perfect this is.” He sat upright. The bedsheets slid from his shoulders to pool in his lap. For some strange reason, she felt compelled to avert her eyes out of modesty. “They don’t need to know. They can’t dictate our lives.”

“It’s a crime against decency. We’d be arrested if anyone found out.”

Not a _no_.

Anatole’s hand brushed her cheek. He was smiling again, so earnest and naïve and good-natured that she felt her trepidation melting away. “We won’t tell anyone. It’s between the two of us.”

“Anatole,” she breathed.

“Is it what you want?”

To hold his soul in her hand. To know him and have him, body and mind and spirit. How beautiful it would be. It had to be, if he said it was.

No one else ever had to know.

Natasha nodded, eyes wide.

Danali curled herself so she lay almost in the crook of Natasha’s elbow.

“Go on,” he said gently.

Natasha sucked in a deep breath as she reached out and tentatively stroked Danali’s fur, at the nape of her neck.

Whatever she had been expecting, though now she was no longer entirely certain what that had been, this was decidedly not it. Hollowness filled her. Hollowness, then a sinking sensation of disappointment and something worse, something empty and utterly devoid of light. It felt like stepping onto a stair that didn’t exist. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart rattled heavily in her chest, as if made of lead.

“I don’t understand,” Anatole said. His voice was uncertain and confused. “It…it’s never felt like…it’s not supposed to…”

Natasha yanked her hand back as if she had been burned. Adrastos made a frantic leap for her shoulder. He rustled his feathers defensively, fanning out his wings as widely as he could, and she felt his claws digging into her skin as he burrowed into her hair in fright and confusion. Even Danali recoiled, with a faint, high-pitched whine that almost sent Adrastos flying for the rafters.

On instinct, she reached for the bedsheets and pulled them over her to cover herself. The words rushed out of her before she could even process what she was saying. “What did you just do?”

Anatole looked up at her. His eyes were glassy, his mouth downturned. “I don’t know.”

“That…that wasn’t—”

“What did it feel like?”

“It was nothing,” she said flatly. She looked at her hands, hoping to see some blemish or flaw, something, _anything_ to explain away what had just happened. But all she could see was her own skin. “It felt—”

“You felt nothing?”

“I felt _nothingness_.”

Anatole flinched, ever so slightly, at the cutting tone of her voice. He reached for her hand, but she had already turned away and pushed herself from the mattress, trailing the bedsheets behind her. He didn’t follow her as she rounded the bed to the dresser and began to gather her things.

“I don’t understand,” he echoed.

Natasha straightened her back, keeping her eyes fixed on the door. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror hanging above the dresser, and she quickly looked away when her face began to burn in shame. This was wrong. All of it. More wrong, somehow, than anything else she had done that night.

She thought of Andrei and shuddered.

Slowly, as she returned to herself and her senses, the room grew dark around her, the candles burned more faintly, and the heavy air of perfume faded to stagnation. It was a cold, choking smell, and it filled her throat and lungs with ice.

When Natasha looked at Anatole again, it was as if he were a stranger to her, and the warm, beautiful _something_ in her that she had felt not even an hour ago had splintered into numbness.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Hurriedly, she began to tug the dress over her head. The paper wings had crumpled, torn in some places. The neckline snagged against one of her earrings, and something in the bodice ripped as she pushed her arms through the sleeves. “This all was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here.”

Anatole furrowed his brow, but he wasn’t listening to her anymore. He was looking intently at Danali and his own hands, as if he could will them out of existence. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. Without another word, she took off down the hall and left the door swinging behind her. Anatole didn’t even look up as she disappeared around the bend of the corridor, her skirts flying out behind her like some sort of ghostly sheath.

* * *

 

Anatole didn’t return to the party afterwards. He couldn’t bear the thought of it, of going downstairs and acting as if everything hadn’t suddenly changed. Hélène would see him and she would no doubt pry for gossip. Or, worse, Natasha would still be there and he would have to relive how badly the evening had ended.

He stayed in his room instead. He didn’t bother to dress or tidy, just lay in his bed and stared up at the canopy with the bedsheets wrinkled around him and the air growing cold. Through the curtains, he could see as the darkness of night gave way to sunrise, though he didn’t turn his head towards the window.

“Do you think she’ll say anything?” Danali whispered.

Anatole shrugged. “I don’t care anymore.”

“You should.” The tip of her tail flicked back and forth nervously as she paced along the length of the mattress. “Tolya, she could tell someone. You know what’ll happen if they find out. If she panics and goes to her godmother about this.”

The godmother. Dear Lord, he hadn’t even considered the godmother. Marya Dmitrievna would skin him alive if she caught wind of what had happened. No, forget her—she was the least of his worries. He’d be off to Siberia if the Magistrate got ahold of him, and that was assuming Bolkonsky or Count Rostov didn’t shoot him first.

He sat upright, leaning his weight against the headboard, and as he did, his heart sank to his stomach, heavy and cold and thumping. His palms had gone slick with sweat. The ghost of that dreadful, terrible _it_ still lingered in the air of the room, as if Natasha’s handprint had left a black mark on his soul. He shuddered again at the memory of the feeling and drew the sheets in on himself.

Danali shook her head frantically. The fur on her back bristled. “You shouldn’t have done this. It was a bad idea from the beginning.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he whispered. “Why did it feel…?”

“I don’t know,” said Danali. She began to nibble at the hem of the quilt—one of the more destructive of her nervous habits, and he would have told her off for biting at the bedding had he not been paralyzed with confusion and fright himself. “Perhaps she was right, then. Perhaps it is a sin. Perhaps that was why it felt wrong.”

“Lena’s never felt like that.”

“Lena was right too, then. You should’ve listened to her. It’s wrong, and it’ll ruin all our lives.”

“I don’t understand.”

Danali ripped her head away from the quilt, taking a square of fabric with her. Her little teeth tore through the brocade stitching as easily as if it was crêpe paper, and he flinched at the noise. “I don’t either, Anatole!” she snapped.

Anatole bolted to his feet at once, tossing the sheets over her out of spite. Danali hissed and darted after him. He was tempted to swat her away, but it only would have hurt him too. How unfair it all was. She was stuck in his head just as he was in hers, and despite it all, neither of them could understand what the other was saying.

“You can’t stay up here forever,” she said.

He had already begun to pull on his trousers. His hands felt disembodied, and he watched himself dress without even realizing it. “I _know_ that.”

“We have to tell Lena,” she pressed on. “She’ll know what to do. She can help.”

Anatole shot her a hard look, reanimated with a frenetic sort of energy. “No. Absolutely not.”

“If Natasha—”

“She won’t.”

“You can’t know that for certain. You can’t just leave it be.”

“I can. I can and I will, and you’re not going to interfere.”

“I’ll tell Dahanian.”

“And I’ll stuff you in my pocket and leave it buttoned till next Christmas.”

Danali went quiet at that, and the tip of her tail drooped. Anatole had half a mind to apologize for snapping, but the other half of his mind was too busy going through his very limited array of options. Telling Hélène was entirely out of the question. If her latest outburst was any indicator of how she would react, then he would almost rather tell Marya Dmitrievna instead. And he couldn’t exactly go after Natasha to apologize either.

He wouldn’t think of it, then. That was what he would do. All he could do. He would ignore it, push it all to the deepest, darkest corner of his mind, and it would go away, and he would never have to worry about it again.

And with that in mind, he started off downstairs for breakfast.

Hélène was waiting for him in the sitting room by the time he reached the main floor. She sat on the settee across from the roaring fireplace, with Dahanian curled in her lap like a housecat. Her hair was still perfectly pinned in place, although she was now wearing a dressing gown, which must have meant that it was still only early in the morning. Around and above him, servants bustled about as they cleaned up the remnants of last night. There wasn’t much to clean—there never was; Hélène was a stringently tidy hostess—and he had no doubt that once they were through, the house would look even more beautiful than it had before the soirée.

“Good morning, Tolya,” she hummed. Dahanian purred and leaned his head against her chest. “Did you have fun last night?”

“Of course,” he said, kissing her cheek. “You did a wonderful job. As always.”

Hélène swatted him playfully. “You know what I meant. Where’s Natasha?”

 _Don’t think of it_. _Don’t mention it_ , _and if you have to_ , _say as little as possible_.

“She left last night,” he said flatly.

He hadn’t made good on his promise to stuff Danali in his pocket, but he almost regretted that when she tensed at his shoulder. Hélène frowned and opened her mouth to say something, but she was interrupted when the porter entered carrying a massive bouquet that obscured his face and barely fit through the doorway.

“A delivery for you, Madame,” he said, through a tangle of orchids and moonflowers.

Hélène reclined back in her seat, smiling. “On the tea table, Ivan. Where we can see them.”

Ivan struggled over to the table and set to work arranging the flowers in a porcelain vase. Anatole could smell their perfume even from the settee.

“Hostess gift?” he asked. He couldn’t even bring himself to muster the enthusiasm to pretend to care, he noted.

“The evening was such a success,” she said. An aside, she added, “Even with Pierre’s little outburst.”

Anatole raised his head sharply, grateful for the change in subject. With all the chaos and excitement of the previous night, he had forgotten entirely that Pierre had even been invited in the first place. “Oh?”

Hélène and Dahanian shared a simpering look. “He got ahold of the champagne. You know how he is.”

“Did he cause a terrible commotion?”

“Oh, don’t you worry. I handled matters before they got too out of hand.”

Anatole turned his head towards the fireplace. He saw his reflection in its polished surface looking back at him, and he realized, with a hot flush of shame, that he hadn’t bothered to change his outfit from the night before. His shirt was wrinkled. His left sleeve was rolled up to his elbow, while the right sleeve hung past his wrist. And even worse, the bruise on his neck—the one Fedya had left several nights ago, the one that somehow still hadn’t faded, the one Natasha had seen—was visible beneath the fold of his collar. It shouldn’t have embarrassed him, but it did, and he turned away, back to Hélène, who had pushed Dahanian off her lap and busied herself sorting through the flowers one by one.

“Who’re they from?” he asked.

She smiled dreamily as she twined an orchid stalk between her fingers. “Probably Fedya. Apologizing, no doubt.”

Anatole frowned. Flowers. Hélène got flowers from Fedya. All he got were bruises. “You think so?”

“It’s sweet, isn’t it? He’s so bad at staying angry,” she continued, shaking her head.

Anatole raised his eyebrows. “I’m not so sure about that,” he muttered, out of the corner of his mouth.

If Hélène had heard that last comment, she elected to ignore it. There was a heavy stock card, tied with a pearly ribbon of silk, tucked into the bundle of stalks. She turned it over in her hands. Her smile melted into a frown. “Oh,” she said. “They’re from Boris.”

“Drubetskoy?”

Hélène folded up the card and let it fall to the table. “We had a long chat last night. He’s quite charming, even if he is a smug fool.” She smiled again, but it was more sardonic than genuine. “But who cares about that?”

“He’s engaged too, you know.”

Hélène snorted. “As if that’s ever stopped you. What with your little Countess Rostova and all.”

“Let’s not talk about her,” Anatole muttered.

“What, tired of her already?”

“I think it’s the other way around.”

Dahanian tilted his head at that. Hélène pulled Anatole onto the settee next to her. “I have to say, I’m more than a little surprised. She seemed so taken with you.”

He felt Danali twitch and stiffen, and her claws dug themselves into his collarbone. He shrugged. “I moved too quickly. You know how shy virgins can be.”

Hélène raised her eyebrows. She looked thrown, confused, even, but it was only for the briefest of moments. “Such a shame. I had thought she would be different.”

Anatole almost allowed himself a sigh of relief, and he realized, with a sense of mixed surprise and fascination, that this was perhaps the first time he had ever kept a secret from her. That he had ever lied to her.

He felt less guilty about it than he had thought he would.

“Ah, well,” she sighed, tousling his hair. “You’ll find another, I’m sure. There are always _anothers_.”

The claws in his shoulder loosened.

“But I don’t want anyone else.” He squeezed Danali to his chest and hoped it would be enough to stop the tears prickling in the corners of his eyes. “She was perfect, Lena.”

Perfect, until _that_ had happened. That unspeakable moment and the skin-crawling hollowness that had followed. He tried to push it to the back of his mind, but it fought its way back to the front, stubborn and insistent and unmoving.

Hélène sighed and curled one arm around his shoulders, the way she used to do when he was small, when he came to her for reassurance. Even now, she still seemed to revel in it. He didn’t mind. He would accept any comfort he could find with open arms. “Oh, Tolya. I know, darling. I know it’s hard.”

“I feel lost without her. It could have been beautiful, and I’ve gone and ruined it.”

“You’ll find something to distract yourself. Or someone. I’ll help you.”

“Never,” he declared. “I’ll never find love again, and I’ll die a miserable, lonely death with nothing to comfort me but drink.”

“You’re only saying that. I know you don’t truly believe it.”

“I do,” he said, and allowed himself to collapse against her shoulder. “I may as well fling myself into the Moskva.”

Hélène let out a long-suffering sigh and pressed a kiss to his temple. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, but there was nothing behind her words but tired amusement.

Anatole’s chest deflated with a shuddering exhale. “I’m only being truthful.”

“Tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t we go to the French Club, you and I? You look like you could use a drink.”

Anatole paused. The idea was far more tempting than he cared to admit. It had been a long while since he had been to the Club—not since the day of the opera, which may just as well have been a thousand years ago. Steshka and Matryosha would be eager to see him again, no doubt, and he still owed Balaga a few rounds of champagne. He could drink, and he could forget everything that had happened.

“We could always drink at home,” he said, only for the sake of being stubborn. “Do we have any of the good tokay left?”

“It wouldn’t be the same, and you know it.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said, as nonchalantly as he could manage.

Hélène grabbed his wrist and started to her feet, a smile curling her lips. She held her other hand beneath his chin to tilt it upwards. “Come with me, Tolya. You’ll feel better once we get some vodka in you.”


	9. A Most Urgent Message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre and Natasha receive some troubling news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! The amazing @Saffiaan has created some _beautiful_ artwork (https://snag.gy/MesBgb.jpg) for this fic. Go check it out!!!  
>  As always, thank you all from the bottom of our hearts for your readership and support.

In the days following the ball, Pierre did not speak so much as a single word to Hélène. She seemed to have gone out of her way to avoid him, and the tension between them grew more heavy and oppressive with every passing hour. If he had been a guest in his own house before, now he was a ghost, lurking along the darkened hallways when he wasn’t hidden away in his rooms, with only creaking floorboards and groaning hinges to indicate that he was there at all.

One bitterly cold evening, around the time most people would have been settling down for their dinners, Pierre opened a stack of textbooks and started on what must have been his fourth or fifth bottle of vodka that day, though truth be told, he had long since lost count.

As he eased himself back into his seat and unstoppered the decanter, he wondered for the umpteenth time how things had gone so wrong between himself and Hélène. Once, not long ago, though it felt like a lifetime away, they had been happy together, and there had been happiness in him, and he had lived each day wanting to make it to the next. That first blissful winter, she had skated with him on the lake and kissed him in the snow, and all had been right in the world.

And then Dolokhov had happened. And then Anatole had happened. And then the ball had happened. And so the world had set in on him and chipped away at his happiness piece by piece, leaving behind only its skeleton.

Happiness. He could hardly remember how that had felt.

When he looked down again at the page he had turned to, the words seemed to float up and into the air. His hands weakened. The decanter lurched forwards, almost tumbled out of his grip, and poured vodka onto the rug.

“You might have an easier time reading if you’d put away the bottle,” Khione said gently.

She was sitting in his armchair now, the one he had warned her to be careful with. The legs hadn’t broken beneath her yet, which was a miracle enough in and of itself, but he could hear the springs and stuffing creaking and straining with her every breath.

Pierre shoved the decanter onto the ledge of the desk before he could spill it again and turned back to his book, an enormous leather-bound tome, marked here and there with tea stains blooming across the yellowed parchment, and in some places the ink was so faded that it was hardly visible. For months, it had lurked in the dark recesses of his shelves, untouched and forgotten. Until now. He wasn’t sure what had driven him to it, only that its subject matter was nothing short of morbid.

“None of what I’m reading makes _sense_ ,” he snapped. “Separating people and their dæmons is an act of barbarism unless it’s being done to ‘reform’ criminals. Everyone is blind towards the hypocrisy.”

“Only because they’re afraid.”

“Not afraid. Ignorant. There’s a war going on out there, and what are we doing here?”

“Drinking and reading,” she said quietly, kindly.

Pierre bristled. “It doesn’t matter. No one wants to know about my research. They close their eyes and pretend that they don’t need to know and no one will ever give a _damn_ about any of this.”

But he slammed his book shut anyway, kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake. Hélène’s words ran through his mind again— _If it weren’t for everything I do for you_ , _the Church would already be breathing down your neck_ —and he realized, with sinking resignation, that she was right.

Dust. Dæmons. The separation thereof. Heresy, heresy, and heresy again. That was all anyone thought of it as, all anyone would ever think of it as. And even with it cornered off in the confines of these four walls, he had still managed to run his mouth like the drunken buffoon he was. What the hell had he been thinking, telling her? What sort of an outcome had he expected?

“It’s not sinful,” he said raggedly. He knew it was pointless, but it was affirming, somehow, to hear it in his own voice. “Dust. They think it’s sinful, but it’s not. It’s free will. We should be allowed to question things, shouldn’t we?”

“We know that,” she murmured.

“But they don’t. They never will. And they’ll— _she’ll_ never take me seriously.”

Khione sighed. “It’s not your fault, Petya. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

He slumped forwards in his seat and ran a hand through his hair. His glasses dropped to his lap.

“Maybe you ought to write Andrei,” she said pensively. “That always makes you feel better.”

Pierre surprised himself with what he said next.

“It won’t. There’s no point to any of this, Khione. I’m so damn tired.”

Khione’s eyes widened as they wandered over to the right-hand drawer of his desk, where he kept his pistols. He hadn’t opened that drawer in years, probably couldn’t have fit his fingers into the trigger guard even if he wanted to. But she grew tense all the same.

“No,” he said sharply, clumsily, around the cumbersome lump of his tongue, “not _that_. I just…I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to die, I just don’t want to _be_. What sort of a life is this?”

“It doesn’t have to be like this. You don’t have to keep trying with her. You could divorce her. You’d be happy again, I know it.”

“I don’t want her to be with anyone else,” Pierre whispered. “We could be happy again. I just need to be different.” He turned around in his seat to face her. “I need to be better. For her.”

Khione huffed. “So you decide to go about doing that by locking yourself in this room and drinking the winter away.”

There was a teacup balanced on the ledge of the desk, left over from God-knew-how-long ago. Without breaking eye contact with Khione, he poured out the rest of the decanter into the cup and downed it in one gulp. His eyes watered. He could still taste the leftover dregs of tea as it went down, burning hotly.

“You’ll drink yourself into an early grave like that,” she growled.

Ignoring her, Pierre upended the chair as he stood and had just started towards the bookshelf when from the corridor there came the sound of someone knocking at the front door. He turned his head, hoping to hear Hélène’s footsteps padding down the hall or a maidservant scurrying to the foyer, but neither came.

Another knock. And again, no response.

It occurred to him that he really ought to have fired the whole staff. How pathetic it was, that his own servants paid more attention to his wife than they did to him. Teacup still in hand, Pierre lumbered down the hall and flung the door open.

His legs almost folded beneath him when he saw who it was waiting on the front steps.

Natasha Rostova’s eyes were wide and bloodshot and her hair trailed across her face and shoulders in an unkempt tangle, as if she had run here all the way across the city as quickly as her legs could carry her, to hell with the rain and snow. The fur cloak hastily thrown over her shoulders did little to hide her nightgown or the way her frail limbs trembled in the cold. Her dæmon, a small, white bird—settled now, since he had last seen her all those years ago—shivered frantically at her shoulder.

“Countess Natalya?” he breathed.

A gust of icy wind blew across the threshold. It sent Natasha’s teeth chattering, made her shiver, and she drew the cloak more tightly across her thin frame. Pierre noticed with no small sense of alarm that her feet were slippered and drenched with half-melted slush. He was suddenly overcome with a great sense of dread, and, remembering how late it was, he opened the door a little wider to beckon her inside.

“Pyotr Kirillovich,” she began, in a voice choked by tears.

“Please, call me Pierre.”

“Pierre,” she echoed, “I-I’m so sorry to intrude, but I didn’t know where else to come. If I’m interrupting—”

“No. No, absolutely—not at all, my dear.”

Pierre ushered her into the sitting room, and then onto one of the settees. She all but sank into the plush of the cushions. The cloak slid from her shoulders to the floor. Beneath it, she wore a gauzy nightgown with a mud-splattered skirt. The hem of its left sleeve was frayed to bits, and she went about fraying it even more as she frantically worried the lace between her fingers.

“Is everything alright?” asked Pierre.

He could have kicked himself for how foolish that question sounded out loud.

“I received a letter,” Natasha whispered. She was holding something in her hand, now, something he hadn’t noticed before. A thin envelope, the wax seal broken in half, one corner damp from the rain. She swallowed heavily. “I came here as soon as I could. I didn’t know what else to do. And I can’t…I can’t sit at home and read it again, or I’ll lose my mind.”

Dread sank into his gut. He crouched, almost kneeling so that they were eye-level. Natasha turned her head away. Distantly, he wondered if she could smell the vodka on his breath or if his haggard appearance had frightened her.  

“Natasha?” he asked. “Is there—?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“What’s happened?”

Natasha opened her mouth to speak again, but her voice caught off in a sob. She passed him the envelope with trembling hands. Standing upright, Pierre pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and unfolded the letter. In small, tight cursive, it read:

> _10 February, 1812_
> 
> _Countess Rostova,_
> 
> _It is my grave duty as the Adjutant General of the Army to inform you that your fiancé, Lt. Col. Andrei Nikolayevich Bolkonsky, has been reported missing, presumed killed, in action while engaged in battle with enemy combatants. Lt. Col. Bolkonsky’s regiment was conducting a routine patrol when they were ambushed by French forces upon arrival at the Polish border. There have been no confirmed survivors._
> 
> _In accordance with War Department policy, detailed information concerning your fiancé should be sent to you direct by his Commanding Officer or the Chaplain of his organization. You will understand, I am sure, that battle or other conditions incident to active service often make it impossible to know the specific circumstances of a soldier’s injury, death, or capture. Such information as is obtainable will be sent to you direct as soon as practicable by the officers indicated above. While I know that nothing I can say will lessen your loss, I do desire to extend my heartfelt sympathy to you._
> 
> _Sincerely yours,_
> 
> _Mikhail Illarionovich Kutuzov_
> 
> _Adjutant General, Russian Army,_
> 
> _Commanding._

The teacup slid from Pierre’s hands. It shattered against the floor, and something in him too shattered. The world blurred and then sharpened, splintered, glass cracking around him in a dreadful spider-web of fissures; the ground quaked beneath this feet, and he staggered backwards until he collapsed onto the settee beside her. His fingers tightened against his will. The letter crumpled in his grip. From across the room, there came a dull thud as Khione fell to her haunches.

Andrei.

Natasha, seeing the look on his face, began to cry. Her dæmon tipped his head back and let out a high-pitched keening wail, so pathetic and miserable that it almost made Pierre double over in agony.

They sat this way, him in stunned silence, her weeping softly, for a long while.

“Why…?” he began. His throat closed around his words. He began again. “Why did you come?”

Natasha sniffled and drew her arms around her middle. She kept her gaze firmly tilted to the floor. “I thought you should you know. He always spoke very fondly of you. I could tell he cared for you a great deal.”

Something tight and painful squeezed Pierre’s heart. He sat up a little straighter in his seat. “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, we were good friends.”

Best friends, in fact, if he dared to presume as much. He and Andrei had known each other ever since they were young men, but that had been in another lifetime and another world. Andrei had always been something of an anchor to him—rational where he was emotional, calm where he was passionate, sensible where he was reckless. Even now, he could still imagine the stern solemnity of Andrei’s smile, the earthy baritone of Andrei’s voice, the firm press of Andrei’s hand on his shoulder. He didn’t seem like the sort of person who _could_ die. Not from something so easy and common as war.

And yet.

Pierre glanced down at the letter again. His vision had gone hazy around the edges. He took off his spectacles to clean them on the hem of his waistcoat, only to realize that it was tears and not dust that blurred his eyes.

“We met at a ball thrown by the Tsar,” Natasha said quietly, as if to break the silence. “It was three years ago, but I remember it so clearly it may just as well have been yesterday. I was by the window and it was snowing, and the moon was full and Adrastos was shifting, but he couldn’t decide whether to be a mouse or a moth. And then…”

Her eyes drifted over to the window down the hall. Pierre followed her gaze. Outside, they could see the dark, empty expanse of Prechistensky Boulevard and the snowdrift piled high atop the streets.

“I heard his voice,” she said. “My back was turned, so I didn’t see him, but I heard him. It was like everything changed in that moment.”

Pierre took her hand in his own. When she didn’t draw away, he smoothed his thumb over the ridge of her knuckles.

“Adrastos settled, right then and there. He turned into a dove. Pure white, like the snow. He never had before. He’d never even been a bird. And then I saw Andrei’s dæmon and I thought—I know it’s silly, but you remember Eulalia—I thought it meant we were kindred spirits. White birds, the two of us. It was just perfect.”

“Oh, Natasha,” he sighed.

Her eyes began to well with tears again. “Like I said. It’s silly, isn’t it?”

Pierre swallowed past the lump in his throat. Against his will, he found himself on the verge of crying too. “It’s not. It’s a lovely memory.”

“That’s all I have now,” she said. “Memories. This is all my fault.”

He frowned. “This has nothing to do with you. How in God’s name could it be your fault?”

“I’ve done something terrible,” she breathed, as if she herself could hardly believe what she was saying. “And now he’s gone. This is my punishment. I should’ve known. I saw it—in the mirrors.”

“The mirrors?”

“My future, in the mirrors. Sonya showed me, but I only thought she was being silly, and I saw—” Her voice hitched and broke over the word _saw_. “Oh, God. It must have been. I thought…I thought it was _him_ , but it wasn’t. Not the other one. It was Eulalia all along, wasn’t it?”

She was delirious, the poor girl. Hysterical with grief. Marya Dmitrievna or even Princess Mary would have been better suited to handle a situation like this. He laid his other hand on her shoulder, as softly as he could, hoping to soothe her. “The ‘other one’? What happened, Natasha?”

Natasha inhaled deeply. She was bracing herself for what she had to say next. “I broke faith with Andrei. The other night, at the ball.” She lowered her voice. “With Anatole.”

It took Pierre’s vodka-addled mind a moment to register her words. No sooner had his blood run cold than it began to boil in rage.

Anatole. Of course. He should have suspected, after hearing all of Hélène’s stories. Anatole the scoundrel. Anatole the rake. Anatole the _thoughtless_.

He should never have let Hélène twist him around her little finger with her silver tongue and sweet words. He should have cast her brother to the streets of Moscow before he had even set foot through the threshold. They were responsible for this, the two of them. Snakes in a den. In his house.

And to think he had welcomed this menace under his roof.

Natasha, as if sensing his fury, shrank back into the couch cushions and drew her thin arms around herself. She looked small and fragile. One breath, one false move, and she would surely shatter. “He tempted me. And I was weak,” she said, like an excuse. An apology.

“Natasha…” His voice trailed off in disbelief.

“I’m sorry!” she cried out. “I was a fool. I regret it all now, but I couldn’t help myself. You can’t understand. I saw how your Hélène was with Captain Dolokhov, and I thought it couldn’t have been so terrible, not if she thought it wasn’t.”

Pierre almost bolted to his feet at that. “Captain Dolokhov?”

“At the opera.” She wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Oh, I was such a fool, Pierre. They looked so charming together, but I was only seeing things. I must have been.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “Seeing things.”

If only it were just that.  

Natasha folded over on herself like a paper doll and held her face in her hands. “I don’t know what I’ll do without him,” she whispered. “And he was supposed to help my family, too. My brother—Nikolai, I’m sure you know him—he has his gambling debts. He was to be our saving grace, my Andrei. And now we don’t even have a body to bury. God, Pierre, I’ve done this all wrong.”

Pierre realized that his mouth was hanging open. He closed it quickly. “This isn't your fault. Not at all. It…it was my wife and that bad man—”

“Don’t,” she said, with a sudden ferocity that made him jump back in his seat. “Don’t you call him that. This is _my_ fault.”’

“Guilt won’t help, Natasha. You made a mistake, but Andrei wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”

Natasha’s face wilted. “You must despise me,” she said brokenly. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I quite despise myself at the moment.”

Pierre raked a hand through his hair. His head was spinning now, in a way that wasn’t entirely to do with the vodka. “No. No, of course not.”

Natasha exhaled almost silently. She didn’t believe him, he could tell that much, but the rest of her face was unreadable. Her eyes darted over to the door. “I should be off now. My godmother will start to wonder where I’ve wandered off to.”

That, for some reason, stung more than it really should have. He didn’t want her to leave. For the first time since he had met Andrei, Pierre found himself dearly wishing not to be alone. He almost had the urge to tell her as much, but he stopped that foolish impulse in its tracks at the last second.

But she still hadn’t risen from her seat. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one clinging to the other’s company, then. His heart tightened. “Have you told her yet?”

She shook her head. “She doesn’t know a thing. Not the ball, not Andrei. I couldn’t bear to face her or my cousin. Not after…everything.”

Pierre swallowed thickly and looked away. Misery and jealousy crested high in his chest again. He fought to keep them at bay, but it was a losing battle. “I understand,” he murmured. “I could tell Marya for you. If you’d like me to.”

“She’ll see the letter soon enough anyhow.”

“Ah.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Natasha said softly. “And your conversation. I apologize for intruding.”

He laid a hand on her shoulder as delicately as he could, for fear of her breaking beneath his touch. “Don’t. Thank you for visiting me.”

Natasha’s eyelids fluttered. Her cheeks, once pale, flushed with rose. “I suppose I ought to be on my way, then.”

“You’ll catch your death out there. I’ll order you a carriage.”

Her face grew embarrassed. “No, no, it’s not worth it.”

Pierre caught her hand before she could wander over to the doorway. Natasha flinched slightly but drifted back towards him, as if pulled by some magnetic force. “Please,” he said gently. “Let me help you. There’s no need to suffer alone. I beg you to consider me your friend, and should you ever need someone to open up to, I will be here for you.”

Natasha smiled at him through her tears. It was tremulous and sad, but lovely all the same. “Thank you.”


	10. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre has some strong words with his wife and brother-in-law.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be advised that this chapter contains some violence and references to domestic abuse, although nothing very graphic.

Hélène groaned, leaning her head against the cool metal of the carriage railing, and pressed her eyes shut. The past week of making the rounds at the various Moscow clubs and drinking every night had left her sore and tired, more so than she cared to admit. It had been fun at first, but now it only reminded her that she wasn’t as young and full of boundless energy as Anatole was anymore.

A flurry of wind swept past the street. Somewhere in the distance, the church bells tolled out midnight. She heard the soft crunch of footprints in the snow, human and dæmon alike, the shuffle of coats and departing patrons, the rolling of carriage wheels, followed by the musical lilt of Anatole’s voice.

“Tell me you’re not fading already, Lena.”

Hélène turned to fix him with a sharp look as he staggered down the front steps of the French Club. The snow had turned his hair white, and it was dusted along his shoulders so thickly that Danali was invisible, save for her dark glittering eyes and the tuft of black at the end of her tail.

“Hush.” She pressed a handful of rubles into the coachman’s hand. “Too loud. Head hurts.”

Anatole helped her into the carriage, laughing. “Should I have left you at home?”

Hélène swatted him on the arm. Danali chittered and darted over to the opposite shoulder. “If it weren’t for me, you’d still be pining.”

His mouth twisted into a frown. Still sensitive. What a child he was, she thought. Not much of a romantic, but hopeless all the same. “I could say the same of you,” he said.

Hélène leaned back in her seat. “Petulance isn’t a good look on you, dear brother.”

Anatole made a sound in the back of his throat as if to indicate that he didn’t care in the slightest. He was never usually like this, not after he’d been to the club. Giggly and foolish and flirty, that was him once he’d downed a few drinks. The insolence was new, and it rubbed her every wrong way.

Perhaps this was how he handled the taste of rejection.

“You ought to have more to drink,” she said.

Anatole considered this for a moment, frowning contemplatively, and nodded. “I think you’re right.”

Hélène passed him her flask. Dahanian, curled at her feet, let out an irritable huff.

Anatole tilted his head back and took a long drink. The flask was empty by the time he finished. He shot her what she supposed was meant to be an apologetic look and squeezed her shoulder.

“Oh, don’t be angry, Lena. I can’t help it. I’ve been in such a hateful mood.”

She rolled her eyes indulgently. “To think I hadn’t noticed.”

The conversation drifted from there—mindless nothings, drinking and dancing, French actresses, all the revelry and scandalous excitement the Moscow clubs had to offer and all the fun they had devised for themselves. It was easy to slip into this casual two-step. Easy, and comforting. Hélène felt the ache between her temples beginning to melt into a dulled buzz as the carriage took off into the night.

It wasn’t long before they arrived at 1867 Prechistensky Boulevard. When Anatole stepped out onto the street, his right leg locked and then folded beneath him, and he pitched sideways in a drunken heap. Hélène caught him by the crook of his elbow before he could land headfirst into the snowdrift. She held him like this, supporting a good two-thirds of his weight, as they stumbled up the steps to the porch and handed their coats off to the butler.

A depressingly familiar sight greeted them in the front hall.

Pierre’s eyes were red-rimmed and watery. His face was flushed, his shirt rumpled, his glasses off-tilted. Unsteady on his own feet, much like Anatole was, but half as graceful and twice as awkward. Drunk again, no doubt. He had probably been nursing a cabinet of vodka all night.

“You’re looking well,” Hélène said drily. The first words she had spoken to him since the ball.

Anatole laughed.

Pierre shot her a flat look. He didn’t bother with a polite greeting. “I need to speak with your brother. Alone.”

His tone was uncharacteristically cold. Considering that Pierre, as a general principle, was on the fond side of indifferent towards Anatole, this was out of the ordinary. Even more unusual was the fact that he had framed it less as a question and more as an imperative.  

Hélène would have folded her arms across her chest had she trusted Anatole to remain standing upright without her supporting him. Instead, she kept her right hand braced between his shoulders. The left she propped on her hip. Not quite as effective, but it was good enough for her. “Anything you can say to him, you can say to me.”

To which Anatole, still tipsy and consequently more trusting than was warranted by the situation, raised a hand and said, “I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”

She kept her eyes fixed on Pierre. “I’ll go with you two, if it’s all the same.”

The look on Pierre’s face made it all too clear that it was not, in fact, the same, but he sighed anyway and gestured for them to follow him down the main hall.

Hélène’s mind began to race in anticipation. Pierre never invited anyone into his study, much less Anatole and herself. It was his dark, quiet refuge, where he could lock himself away from the rest of the world, the one room in the house she had never bothered to explore. While he hadn’t expressly forbidden her from poking around in his things, it had been the first unspoken rule she had learned after arriving in Moscow.

Dahanian stiffened ever so slightly as they stepped through the doorway.

In one corner, there was a faded green armchair with carved mahogany feet, and in the other, a standing-floor globe. What little wall space there was had been plastered over with maps and diagrams, drawings of dæmons and scrawled-out texts. Pierre’s desk was crowded beneath the window, where the curtains were drawn tight. It was the only clear surface in the entire room, the only piece of furniture not smothered beneath an inch-thick layer of dust.

Pierre closed the door behind them once Khione had lumbered in. Anatole seated himself in the armchair and propped his feet up on the ledge of the bookshelf, and Hélène instinctively moved to hover beside him, one hand on his shoulder.

“Well?” she said. “Get on with it. It’s late.”

Pierre took in a deep breath, as if steadying himself. He stood up straight with his hands clasped behind his back. “Natasha Rostova came to visit me earlier today,” he said slowly.

“She did, did she?” Anatole said, with a tone of forced nonchalance.

“She told me what happened between the two of you. What you did to her.”

The color drained from Anatole’s face. His eyes went wide. Danali, tucked beneath the fold of his collar, dug her claws into his shirtsleeve.

“This is ridiculous,” said Hélène. “Nothing happened between them. They danced, that was all.”

Pierre ignored her. “You don’t deny it, do you?”

Anatole scowled. “Perhaps I might be more amenable to answering your question if you wouldn’t insist on taking that tone with me.”

Not a _no_ , but such a glaringly obvious attempt to hide a _yes_ —whatever it was that a _yes_ implied—that Hélène’s heart sank to the pit of her stomach. She didn’t need to hear him say it. The look on his face was pure guilt. It disturbed her, for some reason, the thought that he had hidden this from her. That there was more going on in his head than what she could see on the surface.

Pierre wasn’t done. “She was betrothed, you know,” he said. “To Prince Andrei Bolkonsky. You stole her while he was away fighting in the war to protect his country.”

Anatole straightened his back. “Well, if he wanted her that badly, then I suppose he shouldn’t have gone off to war in the first place.”

Pierre’s face, already pale, became cold and hard. He was silent for a long while. Choosing his words, probably. They seemed to escape him for a good minute or so, and by the time he finally opened his mouth, all he managed to say was, “I am afraid I must to ask you to leave.”

It took them both a moment to fully register his words.

“I beg your pardon,” said Anatole, with significantly less petulance than before.

“I’ve tried to be a patient host, and I’ve put up with a lot these past two years, but you’ve been nothing but a scoundrel since you arrived. The drinking. The whoring. The thieving. And now this.”

Anatole shrank back into the chair.

“I can’t keep living like this. I can’t—I _won’t_ put up with it any longer. I never wanted it to come to this, but you’ve forced my hand. I want you out of my house by morning.”

If Hélène were a man, she thought, she would have challenged Pierre to a duel on Anatole's behalf that instant. “Don’t be stupid,” she snapped.

It was clear that Pierre was making a tremendous effort to remain patient. He wasn’t doing a very good job of it. “I’ve already made my decision.”

“And I’ve made mine. You won’t cast him out. I won’t let you.”

“Hélène, this isn’t—”

“He has nowhere else to go,” she said sternly. “No house. No money. We aren’t turning him to the streets just because you’re upset. You don’t need to treat him like some criminal.”

“He defiled an engaged woman. He’s already a criminal, as far as I’m concerned.”

Anatole inhaled sharply.

“Did you tell Natasha Rostova off as well?” said Hélène.

“You talk as if you have any right to lecture me about morality,” Pierre snapped, shaking his head. “You’re no better than him.”

It didn’t escape her notice that Khione had slowly moved to stand in front of the door. Hélène drew her shoulders tighter and higher, stiffening her back into a posture of commanding grace.

“I beg your pardon.”

Something flickered in Pierre’s eyes. She wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but it made her burn hotly with indignation.

“Don’t play stupid,” he said. “You know what I mean. You’ve been laughing at me. Mocking me.”

Anatole at least had the decency to look abashed. Hélène did not.

“Of course,” she said coldly. “Me and the rest of Moscow. You make it all too easy.”

“I should excuse myself,” Anatole murmured, and he rose from his seat.

Khione did not remove herself from the doorway.

“You can stay right where you are,” said Pierre.

Hélène saw the way Anatole’s eyes widened just a tad, the way his throat began to work nervously as he backed away from the hall.

“Don’t you listen to him, Tolya,” she said. “If you want to leave, leave. This doesn’t involve you. Pierre and I”—she shot him a scathing glare—“are perfectly capable of discussing this on our own like mature adults.”

“Don’t speak for me, Hélène. This involves the both of you.”

“Pierre, now, is this really—?”

Before she could finish, Pierre slammed his fist against the desk with such force that it sent a stack of paper flying. Hélène flinched. Dahanian stiffened at her side. She tangled her hand in his fur, searching for any comfort he could offer.

“I have had enough of you two making a fool out of me,” he said.

Hélène glared at him defiantly, refusing to drop her gaze. “You make a fool out of yourself,” she spat.

Dahanian flattened his ears against his head and bared his teeth. Pierre’s hands curled into fists at his sides, an unconscious reflex.

“Don’t you speak to me that way,” he said. “I won’t tolerate it anymore. You will show me the respect I deserve.”

“You don’t deserve an ounce of my respect.”

“Remember whose house you’re in, Hélène.”

It was not his words but their patronizing tone that sent a rush of anger through her. Hélène’s hand moved unthinkingly to strike Pierre across the face, but he was faster, and he caught her wrist before she could even touch him.

Dahanian hissed, raising his hackles.

“Hélène,” Pierre said.

His grip was like iron. She did not, _would_ not give him the satisfaction of seeing her struggle. It was pointless either way—he was simply too strong.

“Let go of me,” she said instead.

“ _Hélène_.” More demanding this time, more impertinent.

Hélène forced her face into blank coldness. “I told you to let go of me.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Anatole slurred. “Is all this really necessary?”

Pierre glared, and Anatole’s scowl wilted. “Forgive me if I elect not to take advice from an adulterous fop.”

“He’s right,” said Hélène. “There’s no need to get this upset over a girl you barely know.”

“You know very well what I’m upset about, Hélène.”

“Don’t you dare try turn this on me,” she said sharply. “This has nothing to do with me.”

“This has everything to do with you,” Pierre said. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

“What?”

“I know everything. All your dirty little secrets, everything you’ve tried to hide from me. You make me ashamed to live under the same roof as you.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

Pierre’s face reddened. “Stop lying to me.”

“I’m not lying, I only—”

“You’re having an affair with Dolokhov, aren’t you?”

Hélène’s breath caught in her throat, but she met his eyes resolutely. “No.”

“You’re lying again.”

“I’ve told you already, you jealous oaf. He’s a close friend, that’s all.”

“Of course, he is.”

“I think you’ve had too much to drink,” she said.

“Oh, I know exactly what you think. That I was just an oblivious fool. That I was your doormat. That I wouldn’t find out. That I wouldn’t care.”

Fury coiled, vicious and cold, in her chest. He had a physical advantage, granted, but she was no less deadly, so long as she still had her tongue.

“There’s not a thing in this world you care about. Nothing but your drink and those goddamned books.”

She could tell her words had hit their mark when Pierre’s brow furrowed in genuine hurt. “I do care,” he said. “About our reputation. About our marriage. About _you_.”

“Bullshit.”

Pierre flinched. It occurred to her, through the burning haze of her anger, that this was probably the first time he had ever heard her curse.

“You can say what you want, but I know you do too.”

Hélène laughed. “Go to hell, Pierre. I don’t care about you. I never have, and I never will, no matter how much you might want it.”

Pierre swallowed heavily.

“You’re nothing but a sad, pathetic old man chasing after daydreams.” She leaned up, baring her teeth in a snarl. “I _despise_ you.”

At that, Pierre’s hand tightened spasmodically around her wrist. Hélène gasped. Dahanian recoiled with a frightened hiss. Pierre stared, as if hardly believing what he had done, before releasing her, and she drew away from him with her wrist cradled to her chest.

Anatole was at her side in an instant. He pulled her into his arms, positioning himself so that he stood in between her and Pierre, Danali perched at his forearm. The room became deathly silent. Holding its breath. One of the candles on the shelf, burnt down to the very nib of its wick, flashed out.  

Pierre began to stammer out a horrified apology. It died in his throat.

“Does it hurt?” Anatole asked.

Hélène flexed her fingers experimentally. Pain shot through her arm. “Yes,” she hissed, and let her hand fall limp again.  

Unthinkingly, Danali curled herself around Hélène’s wrist. She was warm and soft, a comforting pressure rather than a painful one. There came a flood of _home_ and _warmth_ and _protection_ , something so familiar, so distinctly _Anatole_ that it made her heart catch in her throat. She felt her pulse begin to slow, felt herself relax into his presence, and the dull ache in her wrist ebbed to almost nothing.

Then from across the room, so faint that she almost missed it altogether, there came a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes darted over to Pierre.

She realized her mistake a second too late. Pierre had already seen, already drawn his own conclusions, and it was evident in the way his eyes widened in horror and then narrowed in disgust.

“No,” she said hurriedly. Something vile and cold pressed against her heart. She recognized it as the beginning of panic. “It’s not what you—”

“You _snake_ ,” he said, and where there had been detached frustration before there was now something truly furious and roiling.

Hélène stepped backwards, pulling Anatole along with her. To hell with propriety. Nothing mattered now but putting as much distance as possible between herself and Pierre and bolting for the door. With her good hand still fisted in the back of Anatole’s shirt, she made a move for the hallway. His limbs seemed to have gone slack. That didn’t matter. She would drag him, carry him if she had to.

But Khione blocked their path with one forwards step. Hélène and Anatole froze in their tracks.

“Not what I think, eh?” said Pierre, and he rounded on them.

“Pierre, good man,” Anatole offered, perhaps a last-ditch effort for peace.

Whatever point he had intended to make, he never got to finish it. Pierre’s right hand closed around Anatole’s throat and slammed him, hard, against the desk. Anatole’s head snapped back against the oak boards as Pierre bore down easily, effortlessly, pressing with all the cruel indifference of a cat pinning a mouse.

“What—no—no, don’t!” Anatole choked out. He scrabbled for purchase at Pierre’s wrists.

Hélène forced herself to deepen her voice, to make it cold and authoritative like her father had taught her, and said, “Let go of him, Pierre.”

Pierre’s head turned. His eyes were wild and furious.

“You aren’t being rational. We can’t talk when you’re like this.”

“Pierre, please listen to her,” said Anatole.

Pierre tightened his grip for a moment. Anatole let out a yelp like a kicked dog and fell silent.

“You’ve been lying to me all this time,” Pierre breathed. “The both of you.

“Leave him alone," said Hélène. "He doesn’t know anything about this.”

“Tell me the truth, and I’ll let go of him.”

“I’ve already told you the truth, for Christ’s sake.”

Pierre shook his head. He leaned in until his face loomed over Anatole’s, boxing him against the desk. Anatole’s breathing became frantic and desperate, though he had stopped struggling. Too scared and exhausted to fight back anymore. One hand on Pierre’s wrist, the other braced against the edge of the tabletop.

“You know, I’ve always considered myself a modernist, Hélène. But if you won’t cooperate, then maybe you’ll find that my methods of dealing with cuckoldry are more traditional.”

Anatole flinched. Hélène’s heart thudded painfully in her ears. “Are you threatening him?” she said.

“No more than you’ve already threatened me. Threatened my marriage, threatened my reputation—”

“I’ve done nothing to threaten your reputation,” she spat. “ _I_ don’t shut myself in my study and drink myself half to death every night.”

“No, instead you whore around with half of Moscow.”

His voice had begun to climb in volume, almost to a shout by now. Surely someone had heard them—a maid, a porter, a butler, a coachman. Anyone.

But the door was oaken and heavy, and she could hear no footsteps scuffling up and down the halls from here. Hélène’s pulse quickened.

“You sicken me,” he growled, low and rumbling in his chest. “First Dolokhov, and now this?” With his free hand, he gestured towards Anatole, who frantically shook his head. “I should’ve known better than to hope you wouldn’t stoop so low. And to think you call me a heretic.”

Hélène’s stomach dropped as she realized what Pierre was accusing her of. The bile that rose to her throat threatened to choke her. “How dare you. How _dare_ you. You take that back right this instant.”

Pierre made a dry, bitter sound that could have been a laugh. “Do you honestly believe you’re in any position to make demands here?”

“You don’t frighten me.”

His hand must have spasmed again, because Anatole gasped in pain and reached for Pierre’s wrist. Danali tore out of Anatole’s sleeve like a bolt of lightning and sank her teeth into the skin of Pierre’s thumb. Almost faster than Hélène could even process, he seized Danali with the hand not holding Anatole down.

Pierre stared, dazed at first, but then with an almost childlike curiosity at the dæmon writhing frantically in his grip. Khione growled and bared her teeth with a flash of white.

“Stop,” Anatole said. He let his hands drop from Pierre’s wrist to reach out for Danali. “No, _stop_ , Pierre—don’t—you can’t touch her!”

Hélène’s mind went blank with terror. She was no longer herself, no longer watching through her own eyes, but hovering somewhere three feet above her own body, an unwilling spectator to the scene unfolding before her. This was wrong—disgustingly, sickeningly, inexplicably _wrong_ , in a way that sent a thrill of horror down her spine and made her skin go tight and cold. She saw Anatole’s eyes widen, and his struggling resumed with renewed vigor as Danali’s chittering became even more frantic, until Pierre pressed down again and choked off his airflow.

“Does this frighten you?” said Pierre.

Hélène suddenly found her voice again and reached for his arm, tugging at his sleeve even as her wrist throbbed in protest. “Pierre, stop!”

But Pierre was entirely unmoved by her pleas, and if anything, he seemed to grow even more hardened in his resolve. “I asked you,” he said, with a calm that was oddly more terrifying than his rage had been, “if this frightens you.”

“Pierre—”

“Answer the question, Hélène.”

Anatole’s hands roamed the desktop for a weapon, something to fight back with, but Pierre had cleared off everything but paper. Their eyes locked together for a moment, mirrored images of fear and pain. Hélène felt as if she were choking herself.

“Yes,” she said. Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes. “Yes, it does. Now, let him _go_!”

“I wasn’t done.”

Pierre loosened his hold on Anatole’s neck for a moment, just enough for Anatole to take in a shuddering breath, but when he pressed down again it was with a grip of iron. Anatole made a horrible choking sound in the back of his throat and his chest heaved helplessly, and then fell slack against the desk. Danali went limp in Pierre’s hand.

“Stop!” she cried. “You’re hurting them!”

“Are you willing to listen to me now?”

Hélène tried to catch Anatole’s eyes again, but his head had lolled to the side, facing away from her, and something in her bent and broke. A sob tore out of her throat. It wracked her shoulders, hitched her breath, blotched her face. She gripped onto the edge of the desk as she sank to her knees, not caring, for the first time in her life, how pathetic she must have looked.

“Yes, I am. I am. Please, just please don’t kill him, whatever you do. I’ll do anything. Please.”

Pierre’s eyes gleamed coldly, cruelly. “Anything?”

She nodded, hardly daring more than a glance in Anatole’s direction. She kept on nodding long after it was appropriate to. “I’m begging you. Anything at all. Please, Pierre—anything.”

He shook his head. There was something pitying and disappointed in it. “So, now you care?”

“He’s my little brother.” Her hand trembled as she wiped away a trail of tears. “Of course I care. Don’t kill him. Please, just let him live. Let him breathe. Whatever we have, Pierre, whatever your grievance is, it’s between the two of us, not him.”

“You know full well why that’s not true.”

“What do you _want_?” she said raggedly.

Pierre paused, as if he wasn’t sure entirely how to answer that.

“Tell me,” she pressed on. “Anything. Please, dear God, just let him—”

“I want you to admit what you’ve done. Everything.”

Her breath hitched. “What?”

“Dolokhov. _Him_. When it started. How long it’s been going on.”

She shook her head, slowly at first, but with growing fervor. “It’s not true. I promise you, it’s not—”

“Liar.”

“It’s not a lie. He can’t breathe, Pierre, you’re going to kill—”

“Then tell me the truth, or so help me God—”

“I’m sorry!” she cried out, unwilling to hear the rest of whatever it was he had to say. “I know I haven’t been the wife you wanted, I’m sorry you’re upset, I’m sorry for everything I’ve done to you, just please, let him go!”

Pierre’s face crumpled into something miserable. His hands went slack as he stepped away; Danali tumbled to the desk, and Anatole dropped to the floor. Hélène rushed forwards to catch him.

“Toto!” she said, cradling his body in her arms, tears now freely streaming down her cheeks. His head slumped lifelessly against her shoulder. A broken toy, cast aside. She tried to feel for a pulse at the side of his neck, but her hands were shaking too violently. “Toto, wake up, _please_!”

For a heart-stopping moment, there was nothing. Then Anatole’s eyes shot open with a sharp intake of breath. His back arched, his limbs went stiff. Hélène let out a shuddering gasp of relief and draped herself across his trembling frame as he panted and heaved and struggled for air like there was still a hand threatening to throttle it out of him.

Pierre’s gaze burned hotly against the back of her neck. She didn’t dare meet it now.

“Lena,” Anatole said hoarsely.

“I’m here,” she said. “I’m here, Tolya.”

Already, she could see bruises rising around his neck, hand-shaped and an angry pink where they weren’t yet purple. She folded herself around him like a mock-Pietà and held on as if she were afraid he would slip away from her or shatter in her arms, stroking his hair, kissing his forehead, murmuring tearful apologies.

Pierre reached out a tentative hand. As if offering a comfort or reassurance. As if in apology. Dahanian leapt in between them, snarling, an unvoiced threat in his eyes. He would have followed through on the threat, no doubt, had Anatole still not been struggling to remain conscious. Hélène tightened her hold on him. She heard his breath hitch.

The urge to kill was matched only by the need to protect.

“Don’t you touch him,” she said, low and dangerous.

Pierre flinched at her voice. He swallowed. “Hélène.”

“Go.”

“Lena,” Anatole murmured again. His eyes were only half-open, streaming, the scleras shot through with burst blood vessels. The pained catch of his breath drove into her heart with all the agony of a knife. “Where…?”

“I’m…I’m sor—”

“I said _go_ ,” she hissed.

Pierre’s eyes went dead and dull, with the glazed-over look of a man sleepwalking. He didn’t bother to close the door behind him as he left. Even as Hélène looked away, burying her face in Dahanian’s coat, she could hear his footsteps trodding down the hall, to the sitting room, followed by Khione’s lumbering gait.

The sound of the front door slamming shut behind him seemed to echo on in her mind again and again and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters are like Slinkies: they're not entertaining until you push them down a flight of stairs. With this in mind, go on and sharpen your pitchforks! :D  
> As always, thank you so much for reading, and we hope you enjoy our rambling misadventures half as much as we enjoy writing them.  
> A shameless final note: if you haven't already, go take a peek at @Saffiaan's _amazing_ fanart! (https://snag.gy/MesBgb.jpg)


	11. Doctor Pasternak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fedya and Hélène do damage control. Pierre reevaluates his decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! Sorry for the delay in posting! If you don't follow our other work, EVCOVS, you might not know that I (MaplePaizley) just got back from a semester abroad with limited wifi access. But we're back, and working on our fics, and hopefully this long chapter makes the wait worth it! 
> 
> Also happy Tony's! Both of us are incredibly gay for Katrina Lenk and are v pumped (Tony's 2017? we don't even know that bitch.)
> 
> //
> 
> Please be advised that this chapter contains references to spousal abuse.

Six months ago, Andrei Bolkonsky’s regiment had marched down Prechistensky Boulevard en route to the train that would bring them to Poland. Pierre had watched the decampment from his front window, hoping to catch a last glimpse of Andrei and Eulalia in the swarm of green-jacketed soldiers. The image was seared into his memory—the prince, stern and handsome, his dæmon, regal and beautiful, until the crowd had swept them away.

But that had been in another lifetime. Now, the streets were dark and empty.

Winter’s last death-rattle howled out between the lattice of brickwork, buffeting the gutters below with ice. Further ahead, a gas-lamp sputtered and threatened to go out. Pierre shivered. The crunch of snow beneath his feet was deafening. Ringing filled his ears. Sickness filled his heart.

There was no reason for him to feel this way. Surely this was what he had wanted. All the years of humiliation, all the insults, all the mockery. He hadn’t meant to hurt, only frighten. Only to teach a lesson. The Kuragins were as beautiful as they were selfish. Carved from marble, sculpted from porcelain.

He just hadn’t expected them to crack so easily.

Pierre took a sharp breath and turned out his collar. As they fell, snowflakes caught in in his beard, his eyelashes, the sweat-damp curls falling across his forehead and the frames of his spectacles. For all the coldness of the street, he felt as if he were boiling. His hands fumbled to the front of his greatcoat to undo the buttons. They were almost too numb to move.

Khione refused to meet his gaze. He couldn’t say that he blamed her.

“That was beastly,” she said. “Absolutely monstrous.”

“I know,” he said quietly. His breath ghosted out in a curl of ice.

“I felt it too, you know. When you touched his dæmon.”

She spat the word _dæmon_ as if it were a vile insult. Pierre shuddered. He felt it all again—Anatole’s frantic pulse beneath his fingertips, the way he had writhed in a blind panic and then gone suddenly, horribly still. Hélène screaming, begging, pleading. Crying, pathetic and desperate.  

And then something deeper, worse and better all the same, thrilling, like the rush of an opium high. Power. Yes, he had felt powerful.

But he hadn’t meant to hurt.

It sickened him now to think of it. He could hardly understand _what_ he had done, never mind _why_ he had done it. Perhaps some part of him had been morbidly curious. If he had wanted it, it must have been not to hurt, but to learn. He had only ever read of it in his textbooks, in religious edicts decrying the act. But those surely couldn’t have been true. And with what he had seen—Anatole and Hélène, and Danali, that awful creature—had they not provoked him to it? Was he really to blame? Was it really all that awful, with everything they had done? Everything they must have done?

“Don’t make excuses,” Khione said.

Pierre almost stopped in his tracks. She knew him all too well. All his thoughts, all his notions and feelings, all the inner machinations of his mind, even the ones he himself hardly understood. It should have angered him, but now it only made him feel hollow and depraved.

His gut churned, the way it did when he had had too much wine to drink, or when he had eaten too large a dinner. Bile rose in his throat, though he tried to bite it down. “I regret that,” he said thickly.

“I’m sure they regret it too.”

“I never meant to hurt—”

“But you did.”

Hurt. He had hurt them, that much was undeniable.

“I didn’t want,” he started. His voice came out too frantic. He began again. “I never meant—Khione, you have to understand.”

“Oh, Pierre. I understand all too well. You can’t lie to me.”

And the worst part of it all was that she wasn’t entirely wrong. There was no fairness in it. He couldn’t bring Andrei back, couldn’t offer Natasha any comfort, couldn’t punish God or the universe or whatever powers that may have overseen it all for what had been taken from him.

But for Andrei and Natasha, he could punish Hélène and Anatole. Those two thoughtless, selfish creatures who had never known consequence. That was revenge and justice in and of itself.

 _No_ , said the voice in his head. _You liar_. _It was all for you_.

For hurting that poor girl. For leaving her ruined.

No—for humiliating _him_. For carrying on behind his back like the pair of snakes they were, laughing at him, making a mockery of his name, bringing their filth and wickedness into his home.

And the other thing. The one he could hardly bear to even think about, even now. How could he speak to Hélène again? How could he go back to the house? How could—?

Hélène.

Pierre stiffened at the very thought of her. The look she had given him as he had left the study. Hateful, distrusting, _fearful_. The trembling fury of her voice, the barely-repressed disgust, the curl of poison in her throat— _Don’t you touch him. Go. I said_ —

“I have to talk to her,” he said, cutting off his own train of thought. “She has to know I never meant for this to happen.”

“I don’t think that’ll matter. Not now.”

“You don’t—we can’t know that for sure.”

“You broke the taboo,” she growled.

“So did she. Her and Anatole—”

“You know full well why that was different.”

Pierre’s heart plummeted to his toes. He was grateful only for the fact that the street was empty at this hour, and that nobody was here to eavesdrop or see him staggering about in a horrified, half-drunken daze.

Hélène’s voice had taken up residence in the back of his head. He scratched at his scalp, at the spot where it burned the most, as if he could claw her words out of his mind.

They kept coming back.

 _I despise you_.

Nothing. It had all been for nothing. All his hopes, all his gestures of affection, all his efforts. All for a woman who had never loved him, who would never love him, who would never show him the kindness and endearment she showed Dolokhov and Anatole.

He thought of his pistols, locked away in the drawer in the study in the house he couldn’t return to. He thought of Natasha, bent and broken and weeping and ruined. He thought of Andrei, far away and gone, his body growing cold in a shallow, unmarked grave. No amends. No future. No chance to say goodbye.

It was too much and not enough all at once. The only thing that kept him from screaming was the dread of drawing attention to himself.

“What now?” said Khione. She didn’t sound very much at all like she was keen on hearing an answer.

Pierre balled his hands in his beard. He ought to tear it out, he thought. He ought to find the rail station and board a train to somewhere far-off and remote. He ought to head over to the nearest bridge and fling himself into the Moskva, and sink down beneath all the freezing water and ice. Anything to stifle the ringing in his head.

Khione growled. She looked something furious and feral. More wild animal than dæmon. He wondered, for a moment, if he had looked that hateful in the study, and he began to burn in shame again. With shaking hands, he flung open the lapels of his waistcoat to let the cold in, and he was frozen and scorching all at once.

“Where can you go now?” she said. “What will you do? Not back to the house.”

“Of course not,” he said weakly.

“Or do return. And then you can finish whatever it was you wanted to do in the first place.”

There was no response to that. Nothing she would believe, anyhow, and nothing that would lessen his own guilt.

Yes, he thought, much as it pained him to admit it, he had wanted to hurt. And there was nothing more to be done about that. More importantly, whatever cruel fury it was that had come over him back in the study, it was gone now, and only the revolting carcass of guilt had been left behind.

Pierre quickened his pace as they rounded the corner onto Komenka Boulevard. The buildings here were low and grimy, crowded together like a too-full set of teeth. The air hung heavy with cigar smoke and cheap beer. From an open window above their heads there came the sound of laughter and a klezmer ditty played on a painfully out-of-tune piano.

“I don’t believe you,” Khione said, once she recognized where exactly they were.

Pierre sighed. “I don’t want to argue about this. Not tonight.”

He started up the front steps of the Club, but she remained in the street. His heart, already sore and heavy, strained with something deeper, pulling him back to her. He felt its hold twisting and tightening painfully with every step he took. _Return to me_ , it said.  

When he turned around to face her, she was half-white from the snow.

“Have you no dignity left at all?” she said.

Pierre pressed his eyes shut, willing the pain away. “No.”

“You can’t do this to yourself. I won’t go with you. I won’t let you.”

“Then stay behind.” The words grated against his throat like broken glass. “Stay, and leave me alone, leave me forever. I don’t care anymore.”

The well of anguish that rose in his chest must have been hers, not his. It filled every inch of him, burrowing into the crevasses between his ribs, and he bit his tongue to stifle the sob that threatened to come tearing out of him.

“You won’t. You know it’ll hurt too much.”

“I don’t care!” he cried.

“Yes, you do,” she said, and for the first time, she sounded genuinely frightened. “You can’t stop caring. You try and you try but you can’t _stop_ —”

Pierre turned on his heel to face the door again. The pain sharpened, and then abruptly softened. He heard Khione’s footsteps padding up the stairs to join him.

He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t _need_ to think about it, so he wouldn’t. He would go and drown himself in vodka and drink all these terrible thoughts and feelings away, and if he had the misfortune of waking up alive after the whole affair was over, well, he would worry about that later.

But for now, there was the Club.

* * *

 

_Does this frighten you?_

Anatole felt his heart racing frantically, felt the press of something warm and unforgiving against his neck. The world dimmed and darkened. The corners of his vision crackled with golden particles of light until they were overrun with black.

_Does this frighten you?_

Hélène screaming and crying. No, that had to be wrong—Hélène didn’t cry.

Then the _something_ around his neck tightened, vicelike, and all the wind rushed out of his lungs. His back pressed against a hard, flat surface. There came the sound of a disembodied voice saying things he couldn’t understand.

_Does this frighten you?_

Pierre shouting. Danali shrieking, and then a deep wrongness, a sickening sense of perverse dread that raked its claws through his chest and twisted in his gut like poison. He had to get out, had to get out, had to _run_ —

_Does this frighten—?_

“Toto?” said a familiar voice, cool and clear through the din of his mind. An anchor. A beacon. He latched onto it, clung to it like a buoy.

There were hands on him again, but with a gentle touch this time. One combing through his hair, the other cradling the back of his head, like a child.

“Toto, darling, can you hear me?”

Yes. Yes, he could. He tried to say it, but his lips refused to move.

The hand in his hair found his wrist, limp by his side, and intertwined its fingers with his. Hélène. Her touch grounding, warm, familiar.

“Can you come back to me?” she said. “Squeeze my hand, would you? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me. I know you can hear me, Toto. Please come back to me.”

He did. It was hardly more than a tremor, a pathetic convulsion, a twitch, but it was enough.

Hélène’s breath hitched. “Thank you,” she whispered, and Anatole knew instinctively that she hadn’t spoken those words to him.

Slowly, his surroundings began to spin into focus. He was lying on his back, half against the rug, half against the bare wooden floor. His head was in Hélène’s lap. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dahanian standing at the doorway, vigilant, like a watchdog. Though he couldn’t see her from this angle, he felt Danali at his side, not by touch but by the feel of something pulling him towards her, as if he could sense the fluttering of her soul, as delicate and tremulous as a candle’s flame.

The ringing in his ears, once deafening, petered out to a quiet drone, and the crushing pressure against his throat abated to something dull and heavy instead. Pain wracked his skull. His legs and fingers twitched frantically, even now, even with Hélène, still searching for an escape.

“We’re alright. We’re alone now,” she murmured, brushing the hair away from his face. Now that his eyes had cleared, he could see that hers were bloodshot and streaming with tears. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

Anatole let out a shuddering exhale. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. It was an artful lie, but a lie nonetheless. She didn’t understand, _couldn’t_ understand. Everything in him wanted to scream and cry and bury his face in her shoulder until the world felt safe again.

“Do you know where you are, Toto?” she said. “Can you tell me that? Do you where we are right now?”

_Where—?_

There had been the club. And the carriage, and Hélène’s hip flask, and then the ride home. Pierre, drunk and angry. The hallway. The study. Natasha Rostova. I am afraid I must ask you to leave. A fist, flying out of nowhere, slamming into a desk. Shouting _—_ Hélène and Pierre shouting. Danali, _home_ , _warmth_ , and _protection_ , and then a hand around his neck and his back against a tabletop and _—_

Ah. So, that was how they had wound up here.

His heart began to race again. He flexed his fingers, willing it to slow, and told himself that he could breathe again.

What he couldn’t shake was the sensation of wrongness. That, and the pressing urge to cling to Danali like a frightened child. Something poisonous was festering in the air of the room.

“Toto?” Hélène said.

He pressed his eyes shut. Her hand settled delicately on his cheek.

“Do you know who I am?”

Of course he did. He would have known his sister from the feel of her fingertips. From the sound of her footsteps. From the shape of her shadow on a wall. But speaking seemed like such a monumental feat, and his throat was so heavy and sore, and if he opened his mouth to answer, he might forget how to breathe again.

He squeezed her hand instead.

“Does it hurt to talk?”

He could have smiled at that. She knew him almost better than he knew himself.

Another squeeze.

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll fetch you some blankets and pillows. You can stay here tonight.”

Anatole’s eyes shot wide open. Here. No. He couldn’t stay here. Not for another minute. Not for another second. Not with these four walls closing in on him, the choking darkness of the room threatening to smother him, that hard wood floor against his back, sharp, the ledge of a desk. The air pulling from his lungs, pressing against his windpipe, blood rushing to his head, the twilight of unconsciousness rapidly approaching.

He began to writhe again, struggling to his elbows, until Hélène held her hand to his cheek and said, “Hush. He won’t be coming back. I won’t let him near you.”

“No,” he said, even though it burned like fire.

Hélène drew him into her arms again. Anatole flinched away, on instinct, and she drew back with a look like a spooked horse.

It was agony to speak. “Not—here.”

“Alright,” she said quietly.

Danali crawled onto his chest and laid her head against his sternum. His hand, the one not still intertwined with Hélène’s, came to a rest atop her frail little body. He felt her heart beating in perfect harmony with his.

The darkness was returning. It ate at the edges of his vision, turning them black, and he felt his body go limp against the floor. All his senses began to dull to a quiet, blurry nothingness. In this limbo, Danali crackled with gold, the only source of light he could perceive.

“Just sleep,” he distantly heard Hélène say, as if he were listening from underwater. “I’ll keep you safe.”

Anatole opened his mouth to protest, but it was too hard, too much, and exhaustion hung over him like a thick woolen blanket. If she had said anything after that, he didn’t hear it, for the world had already gone dark and silent once more.

* * *

 

It was sometime around one o’clock in the morning, and Fedya’s flat was as dim and empty as the snuffed-out innards of the kerosene lamp on the kitchen table.

He could have gone to the bar to join Balaga and Steshka and Matryosha and his usual drinking crowd. Or he could have gone to the river where the caravan traders had settled for the winter to gamble and smoke. But he had stayed home instead, hunched over in a chair with a half-empty glass of whiskey in hand. It was maddeningly quiet, and with the draft seeping in through the front door, he couldn’t remember a time he had ever been so cold and miserable and angry.

The only possible explanation for all of this was the pointed, painful absence of any Kuragins.

If Anatole were here, he thought, he would be splayed out on the sofa right now, regaling them with stories he had already told them a thousand times before, or playing the violin, dancing up and down the stairwell with the bow tucked under his chin and that ridiculous green coat of his flapping about as he went. Hélène would have curled up somewhere like a cat, with Dahanian in her lap, nursing a drink and listening to Anatole’s tales with barely-concealed bemusement. And as for Fedya, he would have bickered with them both, and poured out whatever was left of his hip flask and drank it quickly before it was snatched away.

“Just pay them a visit, if you miss them so much,” Samira snapped, from under the table. “Or go to sleep. Look at the time.”

Fedya huffed into his glass. “They’d still be in the club at this hour.”

“You’re wallowing.”

“I am being pensive. There’s a difference.”

“It isn’t ‘pensive’ if it makes you depressed.”

Fedya set his glass aside. He didn’t feel like drinking anymore. “Could we stop talking about this? There’s nothing to do about it, anyhow.”

“Go talk to them.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Well, what do you want to do then?”

He considered this for a moment. It had been a long time since he had purposefully started a bar fight, but it would have been entertaining, and more importantly, distracting.

Samira growled at him and he glared back.

“Perhaps I’ll pay a visit to Nikolai Rostov,” he said coolly. “Still need to collect. Rent is due soon, you know.”

“Don’t be cruel.”

“I didn’t put a gun to his head and force him to put money on the table. If the little boy wants to play poker, he should be prepared to lose. I might as well teach him to get into the habit of paying off his gambling debts.”

“You don’t care about Nikolai Rostov. You’re only doing this because of the girl.”

“So what if I am? He owes me, either way.”

“And if he can’t find the means to pay up?”

“Not my problem.”

“Fine,” she said curtly. “Anything to get you out of this damn house. Leave the pistol in the dresser. I won’t go if you bring it.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he growled, and started to his feet. His knees ached in protest. He stretched his arms over his head, twisted his torso right and then left, groaning as several vertebrae cracked.

“You could always visit Matreshka’s instead.”

“No,” he said sharply.

Samira’s eyes glinted like shards of flint. “It seemed to work the last time you were this upset with them.”

He could have kicked her for even suggesting it. Even now, the very thought of it filled him with self-loathing and shame.

Those two strangers whose names he had never bothered to learn. He couldn’t remember their faces anymore, only that the resemblance had been almost passing, in the worst way possible, and he still wasn’t sure who he hated more for it—them, himself, or Hélène and Anatole.

Strangely enough, it was their dæmons that had upset him the most. Hers a little black cat, his a dull-looking sparrow. So unlike Dahanian and Danali that he hadn't been able to close his eyes and ignore them.

“That was different,” he said, a moment too late.

“It _was_ different. But you’re not angry at them now.”

“I am angry at them.”

“Not as angry as you were then.”

“Well, I’m still not going to visit them. I’d sooner go back to Matreshka’s.”

Which he wouldn’t do either. Couldn’t.

“They might start to wonder where you’ve gone. Perhaps they’ll think you’ve re-enlisted.”

“I won’t go back to them.”

“Not even Anatole?”

“No. Not until he comes back on his hands and knees begging my forgiveness. He won’t care. He has Natasha Rostova now.”

Samira shook her head despondently. “He was right, you know. You really are a greedy thing.”

“Oh, fuck it,” he muttered. “I’ll just drink myself to sleep then, how about that?”

She opened her mouth, about to retort, when they were both startled by a knock at the door.

Fedya furrowed his brow. Rent wasn’t due until next week, and the landlady usually had the common decency not to pester her tenants at this hour when they had done a relatively good job of keeping quiet.

Nevertheless, he hurried to the door and cracked it open with a flat, “What do you want?”

The lad standing in the stairwell was probably ten or so years his junior, though with the thinness of his shoulders, it could have been even more than that. His coat was dusted with white—it must have still been snowing outside—and his shoes left a slowly-growing puddle on the doormat. Not the landlady, that much was obvious. Too handsome to be one of her sons, too scruffy-looking to be an infantry courrier, too skinny to be a bailiff.

“Is this the residence of Captain Fyodor Dolokhov?” he asked.

Fedya leaned against the doorframe. “Who wants to know?”

“I have a letter,” he said. “From Countess Hélène Bezukhova.”

Fedya frowned. “What?”

“The Countess has requested your presence.”

“Well, you can tell the Countess that I’m not interested in her company right now.”

The messenger’s face grew pale. His dæmon, a twitchy budgerigar, flitted between his shoulder and his wrist. Fedya had half a mind to tell them off for disturbing him at this hour and then having the nerve to dawdle, and Samira must have felt it too, if the way she paced at his feet was any indication.

“I’m afraid I can’t, sir,” said the messenger.

“Of course you can. Off with you, now. I’m heading back to sleep.”

Fedya moved to close the door, but the messenger shoved his foot past the threshold, blocking him.

“Oh, for Christ’s—”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that I’m not to leave until you agree.”

Fedya stopped the door just short of the messenger’s toe. What nerve Hélène had, thinking she could trod all over him like he was some common house rug.

She’d be lucky if he didn’t tear up that envelope and toss it into his lamp for kindling.

“Goddammit,” he said. Scowling, he tore the letter out of the messenger’s hands and unfolded it.

 _Dearest Fedya_ , it read. _Dearest Fedya_ , and that was already enough to raise his hackles, but what followed was odd enough that it gave him pause.

 _I must apologize for intruding on you at this hour, but if you value our friendship_ —friendship, now, _that_ was what she elected to describe it as?— _you must come at once._

The stationary wasn’t hers, but the handwriting was. Sloppier than usual, almost hurried, and he could see smudges where her hold on the pen must have been less than precise. As his eyes trailed down the page, it grew looser and wilder, until it was hardly legible by the last line:

_Circumstances are dire._

What was the purpose of this? To gloat? There was hardly a need for that. He had already seen Natasha and Anatole dancing at the ball, looking at each other as if they were the only people left on Earth. But then again, he would hardly put it past her to be that cruel, to stretch out his misery a little further for her own amusement.

But there was something about her note that set his nerves on end, and his skin prickled as he glanced over her frantic cursive again.

 _Circumstances are dire_.

A wealth of horrid scenarios ran through his mind. Hélène was with child. Pierre had decided to challenge him to a duel. Anatole had eloped with Natasha.

 _No_ , he told himself. _Don’t think of that_.

He folded up the letter, stuffed it into his pocket, and reached for his coat. “Very well.”

The messenger let out a relieved sigh. “There’s a carriage waiting outside, sir.”

Fedya pushed past him and hurried down the stairs.

It was only a short ride from his flat to Prechistensky Boulevard. Midnight had cloaked Moscow in black, save for the gas-lamps burning at full throttle and what little light was caught by the falling snow, and even the stars overhead were veiled by clouds and smog. A land of nighttime and darkness. It was more miserable than it was poetic.

Fedya didn’t dawdle in the street. The carriage door had only just swung shut behind him by the time he was at the porch, his hands jammed into his coat pockets for warmth.

She opened the door before he could even knock.

“Fedya,” she said, and he couldn’t tell whether she meant it as a question or a greeting.

“You called for me?”

Hélène’s stoic countenance couldn’t hide how her hands trembled or the bloodshot puffiness of her eyes or the way Dahanian paced in restless circles behind her, as if chasing after his own tail. It was even less discreet when she adjusted her sleeve to cover her wrist.

“You should come in,” she said blandly. “It’s cold outside.”

“What happened?”

“Come in,” she repeated.

“Tell me what’s happened, Hélène, or I swear, I’ll turn around right now and walk back home.”

She sighed, pressed a hand to her forehead, and leaned her hip against the doorframe. There was something defeated and worn-down in the way her shoulders slumped, but she was quick to cover it with the fold of her shawl. “Pierre,” she said quietly, slowly, choosing her words carefully. “He hurt Anatole.”

Something cold and heavy and hollow washed over Fedya, and the world snapped into focus around him.

“What?” he said.

“It’s been quite a tumultuous night, as you can—”

“What did you say?”

“Pierre hurt Anatole,” she said.

Several things ran through Fedya’s mind at once. Anatole, that stupid child, that thoughtless, reckless moron who should never have been allowed out of his own room unsupervised, never mind in public. He had done something foolish, no doubt. Mouthed off, pushed the limits of politeness too far, and now this was his punishment.

Unless it had been Hélène. Arrogant, short-sighted Hélène, too proud and convinced of her own brilliance. Had her own schemes gone too far? Had her plan fallen through, and was this now a consequence?

If she had thrown Anatole to the dogs to suffer for what she had done, he would never forgive her for it.

“Is he alright?” he said.

“I don’t know. He…he’s in the study now, sleeping.”

Fedya pushed past her and made a move for the hallway, but Dahanian stepped in front of the banister to block his path.

“Leave him be,” she snarled, and now there was something dangerous in her voice. “He’s frightened and hurt and the last thing he needs is someone breaking down the door and startling him.”

“Then why bother sending for me?”

Hélène faltered for a second, and he could tell that the question had caught her off guard. She offered him a feeble smile. “I…well, who else would I call?”

Fedya shook his head. He knew this game all too well. If she had erred, then she would immediately look to him for comfort.

He would not absolve her. This was her fault, whatever had happened. Irrevocably, irredeemably, entirely her fault.

“You made it clear the last time we spoke that you don’t care for me,” he said.

Hélène flinched, almost as if he’d struck her. “Well, you care for Anatole. I know that much.”

It sounded more like an excuse than a proper retort in her mouth.

“What has Pierre done to him?”

She never did answer. Someone knocked at the front door, and her eyes darted over towards the hall. “That’ll be the doctor.”

“Hélène—”

“I ought to let him in.”

“Let the butler handle that.”

“He’s gone. I’ve let go of the entire staff. I didn’t want them to hear.”

“Hear what, Hélène?” he said, but it was too late, and she had already slipped past him to open the door.

Fedya followed her.

The snow had since turned to rain, and it spilled past the doorway and into the hall with a gust of cold wind. The doctor was a tall, handsome fellow, perhaps in his early sixties, and with the thinness of his face, the warm tawny of his complexion, and the breadth of his cheekbones, he could have easily passed as Hélène’s father. Around his neck hung his dæmon, a wide-eyed corn snake.

“Dr. Pasternak,” Hélène said stiffly.

He bowed his head. “Madame.”

“Thank you for coming. I know that it’s late. I do hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“It’s no worry at all. Now, what seems to be the matter?”

“Your coat. It’s dripping all over the floor.”

Dr. Pasternak’s eyes darted over to Fedya, and they shared a quiet moment of commiseration.

“With the patient, Countess.”

Hélène stepped backwards, into the hall, and as she did, Dr. Pasternak followed. He shrugged off his coat, held it looped over the crook of his elbow, as if he were waiting for a servant to come and take it from him. When none came, he hung it up on the rack himself.

“It’s my younger brother,” she said. “There’s been an unfortunate accident. I’ll pay you handsomely not to ask too many questions.”

The doctor frowned. “Madame?”

“Please, just have a look at him.”

Dr. Pasternak nodded, but he didn’t quite look like he grasped the situation. “Very well. Where is he?”

“Just down the hall, the last door to your right. I’ll show you to it.”

“That’s alright,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll find it on my own. You ought to sit down, Countess. You’re looking faint.”

“I’m perfectly alright,” she snapped.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Hélène,” Fedya muttered. “Why don’t you and I stay here?”

“I don’t want Tolya to be alone.”

“He won’t be.”

Hélène shook her head. “He doesn’t like to be alone with strangers. He’d want me there. He’ll be upset if—”

“Madame, please,” said Dr. Pasternak, holding up one hand as a gesture of peace. “It would be best if you left the patient to my care. You might only upset him more if you’re fussing.”

Hélène hesitated and Fedya took her hand. She startled at his touch with a quiet gasp. Dahanian ducked behind her skirt.

He released her hand quickly and stepped away. “You and I ought to talk anyways, Hélène. Let the doctor do his work, and we’ll check on Tolya as soon as he’s done.”

Hélène nodded. “We’ll go to the sitting room. I don’t want him to hear us.”

Dr. Pasternak gave them a polite nod, and with that, they departed down their respective hallways in silence.

* * *

 

What little light that was left in the house seemed to have retreated to the sitting room, where it sputtered dimly in the gas-lamp sconces. It was warm, even with the fireplace dead and dormant, but a festering, uneasy sort of warmth that prickled beneath Hélène's skin and sent the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

She tried to sit. Her legs refused to remain still. She paced instead, up and down the length of the room, window to mirror, absently worrying the tassels of her shawl between her fingers. “I hate this,” she muttered. “Waiting. Not knowing.”

Fedya leaned back against the door with his arms folded across his chest. He truly looked the part of the soldier, she thought. Impassive. Jaded. Unreadable. “You ought to stop fretting. God knows it isn’t helping anyone.”

“Did you know?”

“About what?”

“Anatole. The Rostova girl.”

“That was the plan, wasn’t it?”

“He told me that nothing happened between them.”

“I left before I saw anything. I know as much as you do.”

“Shit,” she said. “Why would he lie?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t know that he had lied about anything. Goes to show how much you two tell me.”

“He’s never lied before. I didn’t think he could. Not to me.”

Fedya sank onto the sofa and propped his feet up on the tea table. For once, she didn’t have it in her to tell him off for it. To hell with the furniture. It was all Pierre’s, anyhow. “Spare me the grief. He’s a Kuragin. Lying is second nature to you.”

Hélène whipped around to glare at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Go on. Ask me to leave. I know you don’t want to. Who’ll you have if I go?”

She hated him. She was sure of it, now more than ever. She ought to have cast him out to the street and warned him never to cross her path again.

“I’ll have Anatole,” she said. “That’s more than you can say.”

Fedya cast a sidelong glance down the hallway. “Are you certain of that?”

Hélène’s face went white with rage. Had her wrist not still ached at every odd movement, she would have seized the vase off the mantel and flung it at his head. “How dare you. You have no idea what we’ve been through tonight.”

“What has Pierre done?”

“He was angry. He said that we were mocking him, that we were making a fool out of him in his house.”

“Did he find out about—?”

“You and I? Yes, he did,” she snapped.

He and Samira recoiled. It made her feel more satisfied than it should have.

Hélène tipped her head back and laughed, a dry, bitter sound. “This is your fault, you know. Pierre saw the way you behaved at the soirée. He put the pieces together, and he was angry with me, and he took it out on Anatole, and it’s your fault.”

Fedya’s face hardened. “Nothing about this is my fault. I only did what you asked me to. I’ve never wanted any part in this.”

“No, all you wanted was him for yourself.”

“I wanted his _happiness_ , Hélène.”

“Ah yes,” she snarled. “That’s why you hate Natasha Rostova, isn’t it? Because she made him happy in a way that you never will.”

She knew her words must have cut deeply, because it was a full five seconds before he could form a proper response. “That wasn’t happiness, you bitch. It wasn’t saving him from himself. This…it was amusement. You were bored and lonely and unhappy, and this is what became of it. The only one responsible for this is yourself.”

Hélène opened her mouth, about to retort, when they heard an abrupt cry from down the hall.

Dahanian leapt from the ottoman at once and bounded over towards the corridor. He balked at the door, pacing, scuffling his paws against the wall. For a confused, upset moment, Hélène wondered if Danali was doing the same thing on the other side.

“Shit.” She wrung her hands—or tried to, at least, until her wrist smarted in protest. “I shouldn’t have left him alone with that fool. I should have gone in there with him.”

“You aren’t helping him by working yourself up.”

Something in Fedya’s tone had softened. Even Samira relented, and she walked across the room to stand at Dahanian’s side as he grew increasingly frantic.

“We’re not helping him by dawdling in here either.”

“There’s nothing else we can do.”

“Fuck. Fuck this, _fuck_ —” The words came raw and furious. She lashed out, swept her good hand across the side table, and sent the vase Boris had given her clattering to ground, where it shattered against the floorboards.

Fedya took in a deep breath. “What has Pierre done?” He seemed almost afraid to ask.

She pressed her good hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. “I don’t know what he was even thinking, Fedya. We tried to leave but he had us cornered in the study and that _awful_ bear…” Her voice hitched in her throat, pathetic and weak, though she fought it down and blinked away the tears that had begun to shine wetly in her eyes. “I can hardly remember it, if you’d believe it. Not even an hour ago and it’s already blurry.”

“Then tell me what you remember.”

She nodded. Her mind began to retrace its steps, vague and distant and drunk as they were, back to earlier in the evening. The initial conversation, Pierre’s demands, her retort, and then a hand around her wrist, and—

Well, she couldn’t very well tell him that.

—one around Anatole’s neck.

 _Pull yourself together_ , said the voice in her head. _You are a goddamn countess. Not some frail, weeping thing._

“Pierre tried to strangle him,” she said. The words tasted stale and flat in her mouth. “He was upset about what had happened between Anatole and the Rostova girl, and he ordered him out of the house for it, and we argued, and it came to that. That was what happened. Toto lost consciousness. I thought he was dead for a moment. I was sure I had lost him.” She turned back to Fedya, whose face had grown dark and cold. “So, there you have it.”

“I’ll kill him,” he said. “I swear, I’ll kill the bastard.”

“Fedya—”

He was on his feet at once, pacing the length of the room, feeling through the pockets of his coat. “Where is he, Lena? Where has he gone?”

Hélène pressed her lips into a thin line. It was rare—and lucky, perhaps—that Fedya did not have a weapon on his person at this very moment; even more so that he had not already taken to the streets to hunt down Pierre. She pulled at one of the tassels of her shawl to straighten it. “I don’t know,” she said, “and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“He hurt Anatole.”

Hélène fell silent.

“I’ll ask again. Where is Pierre?”

“I’ve already given you my answer.”

Fedya huffed.

“It doesn’t matter, anyhow. We’re both fine.”

“Until your husband sees fit to return home.”

“Hurting Pierre won’t make things better.”

He chuckled, hollow and utterly mirthless. “Can’t exactly make things worse, now, can it?”

“I don’t need you to attack him,” Hélène said sharply. “I am perfectly capable of fighting my own battles.”

“Then what do you need?”

“For you to stop pacing. You’re wearing a hole in the floor.”

“He’ll return eventually. What then?”

“Then I’ll handle it.”

“And your brother?”

“I’ll handle him as well. Him, and Pierre. I’ll handle them, as I always have. I’ve handled them for three goddamn _years_ —”

Her voice cracked and broke. Against her will, she felt tears burning in her throat again.

Fedya paused in mid-step and turned his head to her. All the rage seemed to have drained from his shoulders in that moment. “Oh, Lena,” he murmured. He reached for her, but she violently recoiled and folded her arms around herself.

He was right. This was her fault. Irrevocably, irredeemably, entirely her fault.

“He was supposed to be safe here,” she said. “I was supposed to make sure he didn’t get into any more trouble. Not after…”

Her voice trailed off, and her mind with it.

Anatole had always been a reckless child. So had she, in her own right, she supposed, but always the more calculated of the two. Clever enough to keep the both of them in line, quick-witted enough to concoct believable-sounding excuses and explanations when the need arose. Hélène, the peacekeeper. Hélène, the greatest liar in all of Russia. Hélène, the only thing keeping Anatole from landing himself in hot water.

And she had been good at it, too, which was the most infuriating thing of all. Anatole was daft and excitable, just as eager to leap into trouble’s open arms as he was to confide in her. Drunken pranks here, a string of lovers there, each affair bolder and more foolish than the last.

In the end, it was the handsome coachman Ilya Volkov who had done him in. They had been in an out-of-the way linen closet, secluded, but not secluded enough, apparently, for their father. Vasily had walked in on the two of them in passionate embrace, with Ilya’s hand midway down the front of Anatole’s trousers, or so went Anatole’s recollection of the day. Hélène strongly suspected that his account had not been entirely truthful, but she hadn’t been able to weasel anything out of the household staff, and Vasily had point-blank refused to discuss the matter beyond stern condemnation.

Ilya, of course, had been summarily dismissed from his position once he and Anatole had finished re-buttoning their flies.

She had been clever then. She had intervened before things had gotten too far, before Vasily could have Anatole shipped off on the earliest train to the front line or Siberia. Even now, two years later, the very thought of it still made her go cold with dread.

She had almost lost him then. And now, she had almost lost him again.

“May I sit with you?” said Fedya.

Hélène realized that she had collapsed onto the sofa, and she shrugged with as much nonchalance as she could muster. It was an impressive amount, given the circumstances.“If you wish.”

He did so, taking care to keep some distance between the two of them. “Is this alright?”

“I am not made of glass, Fyodor,” she said tersely. “You don’t have to treat me like some helpless little girl.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just concerned for you.”

Hélène pressed her lips into a grim line. “I’ll be fine.”

“Let me see your wrist.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Then you should have no issue with letting me have a look.”

He reached forwards, but Hélène cringed away, pulling her hands to her chest. “Really, Fedya, I’m fine. And I ought to go check on—”

“Did he grab your wrist? It could be hurt, Lena.”

Hélène fiddled absently with her wedding ring. It was more tempting than she cared to admit to take the damn thing off and hurl it out into the street. “My little brother was nearly strangled to death. Forgive me for making that my first priority.”

“Will you at least let me have a look?”

She nodded slowly, and Fedya pulled up the ottoman, taking her right wrist in both hands. In the light of the gas-lamps, it was swollen and inflamed, even more so than it had looked initially. She focused her eyes on the mantel mirror, as if she could will away her injury by simply refusing to acknowledge its existence.

Fedya sighed.

“Don’t you dare,” she said. “I don’t want any of your pity.”

“Then I won’t pity you. I’ll just be furious at him.”

“He just doesn’t know his own strength, the clumsy oaf. It wasn’t intentional. I know it wasn’t.”

The look on his face indicated that he didn't quite believe her. “I’m going to move it around,” he said quietly. “Just to make sure it’s okay. Is that alright?”

Hélène nodded and bit her lip.

Fedya began to rotate her hand in slow, gentle circles, bracing the back of her forearm against his thigh. When he tilted it upwards, fire and ice shot down her wrist. Hélène let out a soft cry and clenched her other hand in a fist. On the other side of the room, Dahanian hissed in pain.

“I know, I know, Lena, I’m sorry,” Fedya murmured. He turned his attention to Dahanian as he padded his way over to the settee. “I’m sorry, too, Danochka. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Dahanian softened instantly and nuzzled his way under Hélène’s free arm.  

“Almost done, I promise.”

She nodded again. Tears burned, hot and humiliating, in the corners of her eyes. A few final twinges of pain shot up her arm, and she clutched Dahanian’s fur to keep herself from crying out again.

At last, Fedya placed her hand back into her lap. The pad of his thumb just barely brushed against the delicate knotting of veins under the skin of her inner wrist.

He may have had the hands of a soldier, but they were also hands that could comfort and heal. It was easy to forget that, sometimes.

“How does it look?”

“It’s definitely not broken. I think it’s a minor sprain. A few days’ rest, and you should be fine.”

Hélène nodded blankly and pulled her hand back to her chest. “Thank you.”

“They can happen easily,” he continued in a slow, level voice. “If you twist your wrist wrong or pick up something too heavy.”

Excuses and explanations. That was what he was giving her. She was grateful for it.

Samira rested her head in Hélène’s lap, staring up at her with wide, golden eyes. Hélène threw her arms around Samira’s neck and buried her face in her fur. A rush of warmth ran through her chest, heady and bittersweet and safe. Such was the nature of their Dust connection—it always manifested in a need to protect, in possessiveness, a pervasive feeling of _pack_ and _mine_ and _comfort_.

The door creaked open. They sprang apart, and the feeling was gone in an instant.

Dr. Pasternak stood in the doorway, his face tight and pale.

Hélène stood up immediately. “Well?”

“You can sit down, Countess,” he said.

She ignored him, crossing her arms. “How is he?”

Dr. Pasternak slid one finger along the frame of his glasses. It was a gesture so reminiscent of Pierre that she almost flinched away. “The bruising on his neck is…extensive. Quite extensive.” He lowered his voice. “Suggestive of attempted strangulation. He won’t be able to speak properly for a while. He’s in pain. It won’t last, but for the interim, you’ll have to be delicate with him. A change of scenery might do him good.” He looked up at her. Behind the lenses of his spectacles, his eyes were dark brown, kind, almost paternal. There was something hopeful in them. “Perhaps in the country?”

“A change of scenery,” she echoed.

“If—and I hope I don’t presume as much, Countess—if your current living arrangements are ill suited to—”

“You do presume much. Too much.”

Dr. Pasternak sighed. “Whatever you say to me won’t leave this room, I can promise you that. If you wish to confide anything in me.”

“As I said, Doctor, I think it would be in your best interest not to go prying into the private and intimate lives of your patients.”

“I need to know what happened in order to better treat your brother. It’ll all be confidential. I’m bound by oath to secrecy, Countess.”

“His neck was hurt,” Hélène said coldly. “That’s all you need to know. May I see him now?”

He at least had the sense not to argue with her on that front. Good of him, she thought. Sensible. She would have resorted to throwing things had he pressed the matter any further. “He’s sleeping. I’ve given him ether to ease the pain. I expect he’ll want to talk in an hour or so, once he wakes up.”

“Very well.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked.

His eyes drifted to her wrist.

Hélène tilted her chin up and folded her hands in her lap. “No, there isn’t. Thank you for coming. I’ll order you a carriage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please leave comments! We love geeking out over them, they're a huge motivator to churn out new content, and @thewhiskerydragon leaves really pure responses!


	12. Night-Ghasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night concludes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! 
> 
> For those of you who aren't super familiar with the His Dark Materials series (aka me, @MaplePaizley), a 'night-ghast' is a nightmare! 
> 
> This chapter has some mentions of PTSD, but nothing graphic!

Dr. Pasternak must have been a little off in his estimation, because hardly twenty minutes had passed by the time Anatole began to stir back to consciousness. They had since moved him—more Fedya’s doing than Hélène’s, really—from the floor of the study and onto the sitting room settee.

Stepping into that room had felt like entering a graveyard. The nail marks clawed into the desk. The books and papers scattered across the floor. The muddied footprints trailing over the rug.

The way Hélène had tensed at the creak of the door.

Now, from his seat by the fireplace, Fedya caught another glimpse of the darkened hallway, and the shudder that ran down his spine was enough to raise Samira’s hackles.

“Are you awake, Tolya?” Hélène said. She was kneeling at the settee, where Anatole’s head had been laid against the armrest. Dahanian sat by her side with the end of his tail in his mouth.

Anatole nodded, keeping his eyes closed.

“Does it still hurt terribly?”

“He’s exhausted, Hélène,” Fedya said, a little more forcefully than he meant. “Let him rest. You don’t need to keep pestering him with inane questions.”

“They’re not inane,” she snapped. “I need to know if he’s cognizant or if I have to call the doctor back.”

At her voice, Anatole whimpered and covered his ears with his hands.

Hélène immediately turned her attention back to him. “Shh, Tolya. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No,” Anatole said weakly. “Head hurts.”

She brushed her good hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, _chéri_. I wish I could give you something for the pain.”

“You can give him silence,” offered Fedya.

This time, Hélène ignored him outright. “Well, I say it’s about time we all turned in for the night anyhow,” she said, never mind that night had already come and gone by now. Fedya, having neither the patience nor the will to correct her, left it at that. There would have been no point to it. Hélène Bezukhova was right about everything, even when she wasn’t.

Even when this was the result.

Hélène laid a delicate hand on Anatole’s cheek. “We’re going to bring you upstairs. Is that alright?”

Still drowsy with ether, Anatole nodded and started to his feet. Hélène gently pushed down on his shoulders until he sank back onto the settee with a quiet, confused huff.

“No, Tolya. Rest. Just rest, love.” Then, to Fedya, she said, “Help him, would you?”

It sounded, more than anything, like _help me_.

Fedya nodded and lifted Anatole into his arms. He was lighter than Fedya had remembered—or perhaps that was only because his weight, for the first time since they had met, was no longer writhing in drunken protest of being carried like a child.

They started up the stairs, the three of them, and Anatole’s head turned in against Fedya’s chest. Silent and somber and pale, more a wax doll than a living thing. Danali, nestled in the crook of his elbow, lay motionless.

Hélène led them down the corridor of the east wing and into the master bedroom. It was dark, save for the humming thermolamp on Pierre’s bureau, and beyond the window panes, night was pitch-black and still as a graveyard. She drew the curtains and switched on the gas-lamps. The room flooded with a warm light.

“This’ll do us nicely for the night, won’t it?” she said. Without waiting for a response, she draped her shawl over the arm of the bergère. “Come, sit, Tolya.”

Fedya deposited Anatole on the bed, stepped out of Hélène’s way, and allowed her to fuss over him as she pleased.

Hélène had him sit upright, and when it became clear that he could hardly even do that without toppling over, leaned him against the headboard. The pallor of his skin was nothing short of ghastly. Fedya thought of his sister and his mother in their last waking moments on Earth, and he had to look away when the memory threatened to rise in his throat, hot and anguished.

“Handsome as ever,” said Hélène.

Hearing it in her voice, if he hadn’t seen what he had seen, he could almost have believed it.

Hélène pulled up a chair and helped Anatole out of his boots and waistcoat. He sat, placid and disconnected, as if he didn’t even notice what she was doing, and as she tugged off his socks, he turned his head so that his cheek lay flat against the pillow. His eyes were open now, but vacant.

“We’ll get this off of you and then you can go to sleep, alright?” Hélène said, unbuttoning down the front of his shirt. Quite an impressive feat, given that she only had use of her left hand. “You’ll feel much more comfortable once you’ve gotten into something fresh and—”

Her voice caught off in a quiet gasp when she saw what lay beneath his collar. Bruises in a ring around his throat, like a necklace. The skin had purpled in some places, yellowed in others. Burst blood vessels creeping and dark as wine, lurid and grotesque. If Fedya looked close enough, he may well have been able to make out the faint outlines of fingerprints.

“Oh,” said Hélène.

He would kill Bezukhov. Pistol or bare hands, it didn’t matter. If he hadn’t been sure of that before, he was now.

Hélène tilted her chin up and gave Anatole a too-bright smile. “You can hardly see them.”

Her words rang utterly false. But if Anatole had heard them or understood their insincerity, he gave no indication of it. Seeing him so quiet was almost unreal. It had once seemed that Anatole would only ever stop talking when his coffin was closed. Fedya missed it now—the pointless ramblings, the incessant chatter, the irritating comments, even the goddamn French.

“Fedya,” Hélène said, “would you fetch me a nightshirt from his dresser? You know the way to his room, I’m sure.”

Fedya didn’t miss the new tightness of her face or the subtle dig of that last sentence.

“Of course,” he said smoothly.

It was only a short trek down the hall, and then a right turn at the mirror where the railing bent around the staircase. The door had been left unlocked. Anatole’s bedroom was the second-largest in the east wing, and thus by extension the second largest in the house, though it certainly didn’t feel that way once you stepped inside.

Fedya knew its layout by heart. He sank to one knee in front of the dresser and began rifling through its bottom drawer.

“She’s going to drive him mental,” Samira murmured.

He pulled out a simple cotton shirt. Nothing as formal or fitted as Anatole would’ve liked, but that hardly mattered now. “If she hasn’t done that already.”

“Did you see Danali?” she said, her voice shot with genuine worry. “She was shaking.”

Fedya shook his head and pushed the drawer shut with the side of his foot. “It’s probably best not to get involved, Sami.”

“We both know it’s too late for that.”

When they stepped back into the bedroom, Anatole lay barefoot and shirtless, and Hélène was running a comb through his dampened hair. With his eyes closed, it almost looked as if she were preparing his corpse for embalming.

“How would you like me to part your hair?” she said. “Left, or right? I’ve forgotten how you usually keep it.”

Anatole tilted his head, ever so slightly, to the left.

“Alright, _chéri_. No pomade tonight, I’m afraid.”

Silent, Fedya looked on in a mixture of curiosity and revulsion. This was something they had done many times before, he knew instinctively. There was something ritualistic in it, even as Hélène continued to rattle on as if talking to thin air.

“This’ll be quite the story to take back to Matreshka’s. You’ll spin this into some wild tale, won’t you? We’ll tweak the ending, of course. Steshka and Matryosha will be absolutely enthralled. Balaga might even treat you to a round of champagne.”

Anatole said nothing.

“I’m sorry to say, I don’t believe you’ll be getting an impressive scar out of this. I’m sure you’ll find some other way to show off.”

Once more, there came no response. Fedya couldn’t decide if it was crueler than it was pathetic.

“Don’t, Lena,” he said.

Hélène shot him a withering glare. She turned back to Anatole, cupping his chin, as if Fedya hadn’t said a thing. As if he weren’t there at all.

Anatole flinched away from her grasp. Hélène sighed and allowed the comb to drop to her lap.

“ _Est-ce que je t'ai blessé_?”

He exhaled heavily.  

“Oh, Tolya. _Désolée_. _Je ne voulais pas te faire peur_ ,” she said.

Fedya shook his head disparagingly. “Would you rather I left?”

“Pardon?”

“It’s just as well if I left, if you’re going to insist on speaking a language that I don’t understand.”

To which she rolled her eyes and said, “We picked a charmer, didn’t we, Toto?”

Anatole cracked the barest hint of a smile at that. Fedya should have been happy to see it, but it was such a far cry from the real thing that it only made his chest feel heavy and wooden.

He tossed the nightshirt onto the bed. Hélène helped Anatole slip it over his head and pull his arms through the sleeves. He moved like he was walking through water, fighting against the current. Hélène’s work was pained but less so, save for the visible weakness of her right hand. Between the two of them, it took a full three minutes.

“There we go.” She tossed the old shirt across the room. It landed somewhere in the general vicinity of the dresser. Then she turned her attention to Danali, who had curled herself in Anatole’s lap. “Are you alright, Linoshka?”

Hélène reached out to touch Danali’s head, to scratch at that comfortable spot between her ears that she adored so much, but Danali violently recoiled and retreated into Anatole’s sleeve with an indignant chitter.

“No,” he said. Hardly audible.

Hélène drew her hand back. “Tolya, it’s only me.”

Anatole’s breathing quickened. Fedya could see the frantic rise and fall of his chest through his nightshirt.

Hélène caught his wrist. “You know that it’s only me, don’t you?”

“I know.”

“And you know I would never let anything happen to you.”

“No.”

Her face went blank. It was a purposeful blankness, one that Fedya recognized all too well. One that Anatole, in this drugged, half-delirious state, evidently didn’t. “All that I do,” she said, “I do for you. Everything I’ve done has been for your sake. All of this—”

She cut herself off too late. Anatole’s brow furrowed in bewilderment and then hurt. “All of what?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “It doesn’t matter.”

Anatole tilted his chin up. “No. Tell me.”

“Natasha Rostova,” Fedya murmured.

The two of them turned to stare at him. Anatole in confusion, Hélène in fury.

“Fedya,” she said.

“It was Hélène’s idea to throw you and Natasha together at the ball. She thought that it would distract you.” He took in a heavy breath. “From the two of us.”

Anatole turned back to Hélène, disbelief in his eyes. “Lena?”

He was waiting for her to deny it. Brilliant a liar as she was, there was no room for denial anymore.

But there was for anger.

“I did it for _you_ , you stupid child,” she snapped. “I did it to keep you from hurting yourself and getting into trouble again. Because that’s how you are, Anatole. You can’t be trusted on your own not to make bad decisions. Don’t you give me that _look_. This isn’t my fault. You’re the one who lied to me.”

Anatole stared and did not speak.

Hélène continued, “If it weren’t for me, if it weren’t for everything I’ve done for you, where would you be now? Hm? Siberia? Would you prefer a prison cell to this house?”

Slowly, Anatole shook his head. “Not for me.”

Fedya no longer had it in him to intervene on her behalf. If her pride was to be Anatole’s undoing, then it might as well be her own as well.

“I was only helping you. I never meant for Pierre to hurt you. That wasn’t my fault. That wasn’t—Anatole, look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Anatole pushed himself off the mattress and stood, still unsteady on his feet.

“Anatole,” Hélène said sharply.

“No,” he rasped. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”

She clung to his shirtsleeve. “I know you don’t mean that, Tolya. I know you don’t.”

He tried to shake her off, but the ether had left him too dazed and uncoordinated to do much more than straighten his arm. “I do.”

“You’re not yourself, Tolenka darling,” she said, and now it sounded more like she was pleading than scolding. “You’re tired, you’re upset, you’re confused. You don’t know what you’re saying. _Écoutes moi_. _Tu sais que je veux seulement que tu sois_ —”

At last, he tore himself free, but the momentum almost sent him toppling to the floor. He caught himself against the bedpost. “Go away!”

Hélène reached for him again. Fedya held her by the shoulder. “Leave him be. Can’t you see you’ve done enough already?”

“He’s only being stubborn.”

Near tears, Anatole stumbled over to the south-facing window and threw himself down on the settee. It was too short for him—with his head against the pillow, everything from the knees-down was left hanging over the edge of the armrest, and it was so ridiculous and childish and pathetic that Fedya almost laughed despite himself.

“Anatole, please!” Hélène cried.

“He wants to be alone,” said Fedya, in the calmest voice he could manage. “You should let him.”

“No, this isn’t—just let me explain—”

“Let’s go for a walk,” Fedya said firmly. “Come now.”

With one hand between her shoulders and the other at her waist, he guided her into the hallway, even as she pulled against him with her hands held out in Anatole’s direction.

Once they were outside the room, she whirled around to face him and slapped at his chest with her uninjured hand. “You had no right,” she spat.

“Nor did you. Neither of us did. Not for this, not for any of this—”

“Let go of me.”

“—but _he_ had the right to know.”

Hélène darted to the side, as if ready to bolt for the bedroom again, but he caught her by the shoulder before she could step past him. Dahanian hissed. Samira snapped back at him.

Through the wall, they heard muffled sobbing and sniffling. Hélène froze. Her face wilted in misery.

“He hates me now,” she said.

“Anatole doesn’t hate anyone. He doesn’t have it in him to hate. Especially not you.”

Hélène leaned her back against the wall with a ragged sigh. She allowed her legs to stretch out beneath her and slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor with the rug rucked up at her heels. Fedya joined her a moment later.

“I don’t know how this all went so wrong,” she finally said.

What would have happened, Fedya wondered, had it gone right? What had been her endgame, once she had thrown Anatole and the Rostova girl together? A whirlwind affair, an elopement, a scandal, and what then? There was ruin in every direction they looked.

They had been fools, the both of them, for even thinking there would have been a different ending to this.

Without thinking, he reached for her hand and squeezed gently. The sound that Hélène made was like that of an injured animal. Dahanian leapt to his feet with a vicious snarl.

Samira startled, and Fedya dropped Hélène’s hand immediately. “Lena, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, hush, you,” she snapped, cradling her hand to her chest.

“Have you been using this hand since you hurt it?”

She looked at him as if he had just suggested that she invite her parents over for tea. “It’s my dominant hand, isn’t it?”

Fedya thought of the note, the scrawl of her handwriting, her ministrations with Anatole, and he resisted the urge to groan. “You’re going to make it worse.”

“I’ll deal with it.”

“You ought to bandage it up. Unless you want to turn what should be a three-day recovery into three months.”

“What are people going to think?” she said.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“No. It does matter. It matters very much. Though I wouldn’t expect a man of your social standing to understand what a fragile thing one’s reputation is.”

“You aren’t being rational. There’s no good reason to make this injury worse.”

“I don’t want to have to explain it.”

Fedya sat back. Of course she would be too proud to accept his help. He didn’t know why he had expected anything different.

That was the issue with Hélène, he realized. What made her so damnably predictable and loathsome and pitiable all at once. She only ever offered you what you expected. Never what you hoped.

Hélène scowled and turned her head away. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a victim. Like you feel sorry for me. Don’t.”

“I never said—”

“It wasn’t what you said. It was what you did.”

Fedya sighed. “I only want to help you. Is there anything that I can do for you?”

She shook her head and pressed her face into her hands with an exhausted sigh. “I don’t know. And I don’t know what we’re going to do when Pierre comes back.”

“Well, what if you’re not here when he comes back?”

“Pardon?”

Fedya paused for a moment, carefully considering what to say next. “You could leave. Don’t your parents still live in Petersburg?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snipped. “I can’t leave my husband. It’s improper.”

“No less improper than attempting to strangle your brother-in-law. It certainly wouldn’t be the most scandalous thing you’ve ever involved yourself in, at any rate.”

“That’s different. Those were only rumors. _This_ …this would be more than just fodder for Anna Pavlovna’s gossip circles, Fedya. This would ruin my life.”

“So, you’re content to remain here, then?” he said. “Has he not ruined your life enough already?”

“My reputation has remained mostly intact. Let me have that, at least.”

Fedya tilted his head against the wall. “It’s astounding, the lengths you people will go to for your public image.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I’m afraid I don’t. Would you care to enlighten a poor commoner like me?”

“Don’t you speak to me like that,” she snarled, rounding on him. “Get out of my house. Now.”

“No,” he said calmly.

“I don’t want you here. And I don’t want your help either.”

“It’s not you I’m here for.”

Hélène’s eyes glinted dangerously. “He’s not yours. He’s not yours to take care of. He’s my responsibility, not yours, and I will _handle_ it.”

“Why are you so determined to handle it on your own?”

He knew the answer before he even asked. She was proud, she was arrogant, and the one thing that sickened her more than Pierre was the thought of asking for help.

“Because you don’t understand,” she spat. “You don’t know what he needs. Only I do. No one else does.”

Fedya sighed again. It was hard to hate her when she was like this. When he could see how much she cared.

“This isn’t all on you,” he said quietly. “You’ve done more than anyone should have to.”

Hélène squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her lips into a thin line. The cracks in her mask deepened a little further. “I should have been stronger. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not invincible. I know you disagree, but it’s true.”

“He’s going to return eventually. He was going to send Anatole away. He’ll do it now, once he comes home, and there won’t be a thing I can do to stop him. Then I’ll be alone with him.”

“You won’t. I won’t let that happen.”

“And what are you going to do about it? Challenge him to a duel? Barricade us in the house?”

“We can worry about that in the morning.”

“It is morning, Fedya. It’s been morning for nearly two hours.”

“Later,” he said thickly, “once we’ve all slept and woken up again.”

Hélène sighed and leaned her head against the ledge of the sideboard, as if she had only just realized how exhausted she was. Dahanian rested his head in her lap. Her hand came to a rest atop the nape of his neck. “I don’t imagine I’ll be able to sleep now. I don’t imagine I’ll be able to sleep ever again. Not after all of this.”

“Rest your eyes then. It’s the next-best thing.” Fedya took her left hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come to bed, Lena. We don’t need to figure this out right now.”

With obvious hesitation and eventual reluctance, she relented.

When they came back into the master bedroom, they saw that Anatole had fallen asleep on the settee with a pillow clutched to his stomach.

Hélène sighed and pulled a throw blanket from the bed, folding it around him. She bent down to kiss his temple with a quiet, “Goodnight, Toto.”

Fedya stripped off his braces and boots and ran his hands through his hair. Exhaustion had seeped into his bones. The walk from the house back to his flat seemed like an insurmountable distance, one he didn’t have the energy to bother traversing at this moment. More importantly, Hélène needed him, though he knew she would sooner die than admit it.  

It wouldn’t have been the first time he had slept in this bed, anyhow.

The mattress sank comfortably beneath him as he crawled under the quilt and laid his head against the pillow. Samira curled up on the floor at his side.

Hélène had different plans, evidently. Still fully dressed from the evening, she sprawled herself across the rug along the settee where Anatole was sleeping with Dahanian lined against her back.

“What on Earth do you think you’re doing?” Fedya said.

Hélène scoffed. “What does it look like? I’m keeping an eye on him.”

“Be reasonable, Hélène. It’s not going to make a difference to him whether you’re asleep on the floor or on the bed.”

Her eyes darted between the doorway and Anatole. “Still. I have to do something.”

“And what if Pierre comes back and you’re too tired to do anything about it?”

Idly, as if to distract herself, she ran her thumb over Anatole’s knuckles. His face had softened in the dimming light of the gas-lamps. Hers had hardened with guilt and exhaustion.  

“Come to bed,” Fedya said softly. “Nothing will happen to him.”

Hélène cast one last glance at Anatole and slowly walked over to the bed. Dahanian crawled onto the end of the mattress as she slid between the sheets.

Fedya reached for her hand, but she rolled away and turned to face the wall.

“Goodnight, Hélène,” he murmured.

She didn’t answer him. He hadn’t expected her to.

* * *

 

Fedya dreamed of the war.

He was in the Caucuses again, three years ago and a thousand miles away, and it was summer, and the air was heavy and oppressive and thick with the too-familiar boom of cannon fire. He smelled gunpowder. He felt the warmth of fire heating his face. Beneath him was the rough canvas of his cot, and then further, bare earth. There was Samira, and there was shouting, and the beating of his heart came too loud and too fast.

Once, he had thought that he had left this place behind. Now he knew that it had never truly left him.

Until something struck him across the face, hard enough to shake him from his sleep. The room jolted into focus, and Fedya shot back to the present like a rocket fired across an open field. He was in Russia now, not Persia. Pierre’s house, not an infantry tent. A large four-poster bed, not an army-issue cot. There were no cannons and no bullets, only the sound of shuffling bedsheets and someone speaking in a frantic, hushed tone.

Fedya groaned and ran his hand over his eyes. “Lena?”

Hélène whimpered—it must have been her who had struck him—and writhed about in the sheets. In her sleep, her face had twisted with pain. She was talking under her breath, just quietly enough that he couldn’t separate it into individual words.

Fedya frowned. “Lena?”

“No,” she murmured. “No, stop—don’t touch him!”

Something slow and poisonous wound its way into his throat, squeezing, choking. He felt all the blood rush to his face, felt his heart begin to race, each beat forceful as a cannon blast.

And then:

“Please, I’ll do anything.”

Fedya’s lip curled in disgust.

“Tolya,” she said. “Please…no…”  

He reached out to touch her shoulder. “Lena, you’re having a bad dream.”

Hélène’s hand came flying at him out of nowhere and clocked him square in the jaw. His head snapped to the side under the force of her blow. The sting of it registered a moment later.  

She bolted upright with a hiss of pain, wild-eyed and disoriented, clutching her sheets to her chest, her injured hand—the one she had hit him with, apparently—cradled between her knees. She looked mad, like one of the shell-shocked soldiers Fedya had seen in Persia. Terrified and confused, ready to bolt at the slightest sound or movement. Put a pistol in her hand, and it would’ve been a perfect match.

“It’s alright,” he said. “It was a night-ghast. Just a night-ghast. You’re okay, you’re safe.”

Hélène’s composure slowly returned to her and she drew the sheets around herself like a cocoon. Dahanian crawled onto the mattress beside her with a quiet purr. His fur stood on end. A night-ghast, shared between the two of them. That, or he could feel just how frightened she was.

“I know that,” she said.

“There’s no shame in it, Lenochka,” he said, reaching for her again. “They visit me on occasion too. Persia and Germany and Poland, it all comes back.”

Hélène twisted away. Dahanian hissed in warning, baring his canines. “Oh, _sod_ you, and sod Persia and sod Germany and—”

“What I’m saying is that it’s alright to be upset about this. Your memories might not leave, but you’ll learn how to manage them soon enough.”

“Nothing’s happened to me,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sure it was terrifying,” Fedya said gently. “I know that he threatened you.”

Hélène froze, eyeing him suspiciously. “I beg your pardon.”

“You were talking in your sleep.”

“It was only a night-ghast. As you said.”

Samira nudged at Hélène’s foot, the one that was dangling off the side of the bed. Hélène quickly pulled her leg up onto the mattress. Fedya felt the rush of disappointment and hurt that Samira must have felt too, though she padded over to the foot of the bed without complaint. Best for Hélène to feel in control here. Best that she had Dahanian with her, an extra support, an extra companion to outnumber Fedya. He understood the feeling all too well.

Slowly but eventually, she relaxed.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” she said brusquely. “There is nothing to talk about.”

“I’m only trying to help, _dorogaya_.”

Hélène scoffed. “Don’t you even think of coddling me, Fyodor Ivanovich.”

“What did he do to you?”

Her eyes flickered between him and the door, then to Dahanian, then to Samira, and then to the window, where they focused on some far-off point in the distance. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. I’m fine.”

“You clearly aren’t.”

Hélène gave him a cold smile, the one she typically reserved for the likes of Anna Pavlovna and Pierre. It sent chills down his spine. “Well, seeing as you are neither a doctor nor a priest, I don’t need to listen to you.”

Fedya struggled not to clench his teeth. Reassurances and kind words clearly wouldn’t work on her. Perhaps sternness would, then. She could at least fire back that way, make herself feel in control even if only by virtue of having the wittiest-sounding retort.

“I’m not stupid, Hélène,” he said. “I know that you haven’t told me everything.”

“Because it’s none of your goddamn business,” she shot back. Dahanian growled, low and rumbling in the back of his throat, and curled himself around her.

“It’s your business, and therefore by extension my business as well.”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“You at least owe me the courtesy of an explanation.”

“Why? Because we’ve slept together? Because you’re Anatole’s drinking buddy? None of that matters.”

He shouldn’t have smirked at that, but he did anyway. “Well, seeing as I’ve also slept with Anatole and gotten drunk with you—”

“Oh, come off it,” she snapped. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Someone or something startled in the corner of the room. Fedya sat upright on his knees. Hélène fell silent. He had hardly realized how loud their voices must have been.

“You’ve woken him up now,” she said, as if she hadn’t been shouting as well. “Wonderful.”

But Anatole wasn’t awake. He wasn’t thrashing like Hélène had been, but he was muttering strings of nonsense under his breath. Fedya heard his voice hitch shakily, and his retort to Hélène’s accusation withered and died in his throat with a sour taste.

Hélène was at his side in seconds. “Toto? Toto, love, can you wake up for me?”

Anatole, who had always been a light sleeper, remained oblivious. Fedya could see a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks. He had been crying for a long while, by the look of things.

Hélène reached out to tentatively touch Anatole’s shoulder. Anatole sucked in a sharp breath at the contact and his hands flew to his throat. Danali let out a shriek and dove for cover beneath the blanket.

“No, stop,” he gasped.

“It’s only me, Toto.”

Anatole began to struggle to his elbows, panting and writhing in a blind panic, but it was clear that there was no fight left in him, and within seconds he had collapsed against the cushions again.

“Shh, just lie down,” Hélène said. She smoothed the sweat-slick hair back from his forehead, though her hands were still shaking. “You’re alright. I’m here. It’s Lena. I’ve got you.”

“Lena,” he breathed. “Oh, God. Lena.”

“I’m here.”

“I thought for a moment—”

“It’s only me.”

“It felt like—”

“I know, _chéri_. A night-ghast, that was all.”

Anatole sighed and stared up at the ceiling. His face was almost as white. “Has he returned yet?”

“No, of course not,” Hélène said. “I wouldn’t let him near you.”

Fedya stood off to the side, uncomfortably aware of his own presence. He wished he could have been as small and unnoticeable as a fly on the wall, or a moth, something dark and discrete. It felt sacrilegious to intrude on this quiet moment.

Anatole rubbed at his collarbone tenderly, where the bruising was lightest. “I still feel it.”

Hélène laid her good hand against Danali’s head. Danali and Anatole flinched at the contact. Just as quickly, she drew her hand away. “The bruises will disappear in a few days.”

“No,” he said. “It’s this feeling inside of me.”

Hélène furrowed her brow. Dahanian shifted against her back, craning his neck over her shoulder for a better view. “What do you mean?”

There was a pregnant pause as Anatole struggled for words. “I don’t know,” he said finally.

“Is this about…?” Her voice trailed off.

“What?” said Fedya.

Anatole shuddered as if a pair of invisible hands had closed down on his throat again. He swallowed thickly. “When you touched Danali. It feels wrong.”

Fedya’s heart sank to his heels, his stomach with it.

“Tolya?” Hélène said.

Anatole’s eyes welled with tears again. “You were right,” he said, in a choked-off voice. “It’s wrong. It’ll ruin all our lives.”

Hélène sighed and stroked his cheek. “Do you remember that summer we spent at the dacha when you were small, and it thundered and poured every night? You were so frightened first night, and when you heard it you came running to my room to hide. But the storm passed, and it never thundered again, not all summer. It’s the same thing, Tolya. It’s the thunder. It’s come and passed, and it won’t come back, and if it does, you’ll run to me and I’ll hide you again.”

“I don’t want to feel it again.”

“It was just a bad dream. That’s all it was. Thunder and bad dreams. Close your eyes and go back to sleep, and something sweeter will visit you. Please, Tolya. I’ll be right here. Nothing will happen to you while I’m here, I promise.”

It seemed to Fedya there was a sort of unspoken language between the two of them, in Anatole’s gestures and the barely-perceptible shifting of his expression, in Hélène’s rhetorical ramblings and corner-of-the-mouth smiles. No longer cruel but comforting. They moved in perfect rhythm with each other, like two cogs in a clockwork device.

He longed, for what felt like the thousandth time, to understand them as deeply as they understood each other.

The ether must have taken hold again because Anatole dozed off shortly after that. Hélène didn’t move from his side until his eyes drifted shut and his hand grew limp in hers and his head lolled against the pillow.

Heavily, she sank down on the bed with a quiet, “Dammit.”

“What’s wrong with Danali?”

“Pierre,” she said raggedly, unable to tear her eyes away from the settee. “He…he touched her. Forcibly. To hurt them.”

A thrill of disgust ran down Fedya’s spine. He thought back to the evening of the opera, their conversation in the carriage, Pierre’s grotesque fascinations, and he wondered exactly what could have provoked him to this.  

If this was to be Hélène’s first lesson in consequences, he would have struggled to dream up a crueler one.

“You didn’t tell me about that,” he said.

Hélène bit her lip and shrugged. “It wasn’t my place to tell.”

Secrets again. Would there ever be anything but secrets between the three of them? Would there ever be anything she didn’t keep locked away in her head?

Fedya’s voice was very quiet and brittle when he spoke next. “Did Bezukhov ever—?”

“Never. Never. I wouldn’t have dreamt it in a million years.” Her eyes darted to her wrist. It was only for a moment, but it was enough. “I never thought he had it in him.”

Fedya almost shuddered again as another jolt of revulsion ran through him. “Why?”

“Oh, you know Pierre,” she said. “Always in that study of his, reading up on Dust and dæmons and God-knows-what. Perhaps he knows something we don’t. But there’s nothing we can do about that now.”

“Of course there is. Bring him to the Magistrate. Or the Church. You know how they deal with those who break the taboo.”

Hélène let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Like us?”

Fedya hesitated. “He doesn’t know that, though.”

She sighed and drew her knees up to her chin.

“Oh, Lena, don’t tell me.”

“It was Danali,” she murmured into the fabric of her skirt. “She was only trying to comfort me, the poor thing. She wasn’t thinking. It was only for a moment, Fedya, you hardly would’ve noticed it, but he saw, and I suppose he made of it what he wanted.”

“No one would believe him,” Fedya said quickly. More so because he needed to believe it than she did.

“There’s no guarantee anyone would believe us either. What would they think? They can’t even bring themselves to say ‘Dust’, never mind ‘dæmon-touching’. It’s our word against his.”

“The word of three against the word of one.”

“Three,” Hélène tutted. “The scoundrel prince, the harlot of Moscow, and the assassin.”

Fedya cracked a small smile despite himself. “Versus the bastard count. I’d wager it’s more of a level playing field than you think.”

Now her face grew hard. “And have you considered what would happen to Tolya? If news of this… _incident_ did get out?”

“This isn’t his fault.”

“No one would care and you know it.”

Fedya frowned. Samira crawled under his arm and perched her head in his lap. She must have felt the unease churning at the pit of his stomach. “What do you mean?”

“People want a sordid little scandal to titter over, and Anatole’s reputation isn’t exactly gleaming as things stand. They won’t care _how_ anyone’s involved, only _who_ is, and they’ll fill in the rest for themselves.” She swallowed heavily. “You should know that well enough by now. Surely you’ve seen how word gets around. If our parents heard about it, he’d be off to Siberia before we could blink, and there would be nothing I could do to stop it this time.”

“There are always rumors. That doesn’t mean anyone takes them seriously.”

There was something distant and haunted in her eyes. “Pierre did.”

“This could be your chance to get away from him.”

Hélène pressed her eyes shut. “No. This changes nothing.”

“Well, I don’t imagine Pierre wants word to get out that he’s broken the taboo either. Bad enough for Anatole, even worse for him. You finally have some leverage now.”

“I can’t—I won’t risk it,” she said, shaking her head. “I won’t risk Tolya.”

“You know that this wasn’t an isolated event. He’ll do this again.”

“He won’t. Not now, not once he realizes what could happen.”

What a lie it all was. Hopeful, but a lie nonetheless. Fedya sighed and resolved to drop the matter until the morning.

“It’s late,” he said. “Do you want to try to sleep again?”

Hélène shook her head. “I keep feeling like he’s going to come barging down the door. It’s gnawing at the back of my mind.”

“You need to rest, Lena.”

“ _Tolya_ needs to rest. I fall asleep once, and what happens?” In the fold of the bedsheets, her knuckles went white. “No. Not again.”

“How about I take the first shift?”

A frown creased her brow. “Pardon?”

“You’ve been up and out all night. You ought to save your strength. And you’re right, someone should keep an eye out.”

“But Tolya—”

“He’s farther from the door. He’s safe. You both are. I’m here.”

Hélène turned her head, slowly, away from the door and towards him. “You’ll stay awake?”

Fedya’s hand settled on the small of her back. Samira and Dahanian nuzzled themselves under her arms. “I give you my word. I won’t let him hurt you. Either of you.”

“Do you promise?”

“On my life.”

“Stay with me,” she murmured. “Please. Dahanian’s still frightened.”

 _I’m still frightened_ , she meant.

He didn’t need to hear it out loud. The nervous twitch of her fingers, the catch of her breath, and stiffness of her jaw all spoke loudly enough.

“Of course, Lenka,” he said. “Do you want me by the door?”

Wordlessly, she tugged at his wrist and pulled him down until he lay next to her. “Here.”

Fedya stretched out. He was careful to keep a few inches between them. “Is this alright?”

Her hand drifted to the front of his shirt and pulled him in closer. “More. Please.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist and settled in next to her. She smelled warm and familiar, smoke and jasmine and a faint trace of something metallic.

Hélène huffed and burrowed in closer. Samira crawled across the mattress to lie at her feet like a guard dog. Dahanian lay to her right, his head on her shoulder. Cocooned on all sides by warmth. She smiled and sank back into it with a content sigh.

Fedya could count on one hand the number of times Hélène had ever allowed herself this sort of vulnerability in front of him, and he would have had several fingers left to spare. But there was nothing calculated in her demeanor now, as if all the simpering guile had been stamped out of her. It wouldn’t last. It never did, but he could savor its sweetness, at least for this short while.

Cautiously, he ran a hand up her back and rubbed her shoulders, willing the tension out of them.

From out in the hall there came the sound of floorboards creaking as the house settled into its foundation. Hélène immediately tensed in his arms.

She sat upright, he with her. “Fedya—”

“There’s no one there, _lyubov moya_. There’s nothing in the hallway.”

She let out a shuddering sigh. Her hands closed around the bedsheets and held tight. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve lost my senses.”

“Don’t apologize.”

Hélène settled against his chest and ran her left hand up his stomach. “Thank you.”

Fedya brushed a kiss to her hairline. “Go to sleep, Lena.”

It didn’t take all that long.

There was something deeply comforting in the way Hélène curled up against him in her sleep with her head resting in the crook of his neck. She and Anatole slept soundly as the Sun began to rise, golden and red, in the window. Fedya stayed awake all the while, allowing his gaze to wander around the room and occasionally settling on their faces.  

His friends. Friends—was that even the appropriate word? What were they to him? Lovers? Comrades? No. There was no use for words. No point to them either. Words couldn’t have meant more to him than the deep, bittersweet sensation that welled up in his chest as he watched them, Hélène and Dahanian at his side and Anatole and Danali in the far corner of the room.

Every once in a while, Dahanian’s tail brushed against his leg, and Fedya was hit with tiny thrills that felt like comfort, intimacy, familiarity, _Hélène_.

Surely Bezukhov couldn’t understand what this felt like. Of course he had to twist it instead, and turn it into weapon, into something vile and unspeakable. For all his flaws, never mind his naturally obtuse sensibilities, Anatole had been right about this. This felt too good, too _right_ to be a sin.

“Oh, Fedya,” Samira whispered.

Fedya reached down to stroke at the spot between her ears. “I love you, Sami.”

He felt her heart beating, and his own, and Hélène’s and Dahanian’s and still somehow Anatole’s and Danali’s, all in perfect harmony, like some delicate clockwork arrangement, and they lay that way in silence until the sunrise bled into a clear grey and it was day once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love ourselves kudos and comments! If you liked, please consider leaving them!


	13. Pierre & Hélène

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre and Hélène come to an agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for giving us a read! If you like this, check out our other works, 'On the Lam', and 'Either Very Clever or Very Stupid (now finished!)'
> 
>  
> 
> Please be advised that this is some reference to spousal abuse/ violence.

It was with great surprise and disappointment that Pierre woke the next day to realize that he had not died in his sleep.

Around him, the other patrons and stragglers left over from the night before began to rouse from their sleep. With a heavy groan, he propped himself up on his elbows. One hand fumbled for his wallet, tucked into the breast pocket of his fur coat. More disappointing—but less surprising—was the realization that he didn’t have so much as a single ruble or kopek left.

He could only hope that this was after he had paid the tab.

Late February had brought with it the sort of damp chill that preceded the melting of January’s snowfall, and even the weight of Pierre’s coat hadn’t been able to keep it at bay. Presently, he lay folded over in a corner booth that was far too cramped for a man of his size. His left arm had gone dead. Khione had curled herself beneath the table, and every time she inhaled, the rise of her shoulders lifted it a few inches off the floor. A pounding headache hammered against the back of his skull with all the force of an anvil. And sprawled all over the tabletop and floor, as it usually was after a night in the French Club, was a veritable avalanche of empty bottles.

Pierre dragged himself from the bar and back into the street, cursing each respective ligament and tendon as it pained him. The cold air of the outdoors stung like a slap to the face. His vision still hadn’t returned to full clarity, which must have signaled an impending migraine. That, or his spectacles were too filthy to see properly.

“Well,” Khione said, chuffed, “this is a fine state you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Pierre growled, and hailed a passing carriage.

No one came to greet him at the door when he finally arrived at 1867 Prechistensky Boulevard. The butler wasn’t there to take his coat, the maids never arrived to offer him tea, the porter hadn’t even bothered to light the gas-lamps in the front hall.

Pierre sighed to himself and draped his coat over the railing instead.  

The foyer lay silent, utterly devoid of life and movement. Khione’s looming bulk appeared as nothing more than a shadow in the paltry light that managed to fight its way through the curtains. Frowning, Pierre ran a hand down his face and then through his hair in the hopes of fixing it. God only knew what a disaster he must have looked like now.

A strain of voices drifted in from further down the hall. If he craned his neck and squinted, he could see a single solitary gas-lamp flickering in the gloom of the corridor. He followed its light to the dining room archway, hoping to encounter a maid, the butler, _someone_ who could explain why the house was so empty.

He saw them before they realized he was even there.

The three of them were sitting at the far end of the table. There was something odd about their manner; they all seemed tense and on-edge, but the way they sprawled across each other was casual, improper even.

Strangely, it was Dolokhov who looked the worst for wear out of the three of them. His shirt was rumpled, his eyes darkly-lined, his face drawn and his cheeks hollow. It wasn’t unusual to see him out of his army uniform, but now jacketless, wearing too-worn trousers and braces, he was smaller than Pierre had remembered.

Even Hélène seemed out of sorts. She hadn’t bothered to style her hair, hadn’t even donned any of the powders or pearls she was so fond of wearing. In her loose housedress, she looked different, younger even, and Pierre had to bite down a pang of ridiculous resentment and shock at having never seen this side of her.

And then in the chair to her left was Anatole, pale and slim and small, sitting up straight in his seat with his legs crossed beneath him like a sage. He held Danali against his chest and absentmindedly stroked her fur in a consistent, measured rhythm. Childlike, almost content. No more of the arrogance he usually carried himself with.

The house staff were still nowhere to be seen, so it must have been Hélène herself who had set the table for breakfast. Most mornings, this room would have been filled with endless platters of kvass soup, pirozhki, stellate sturgeon à la russe, bordelaise sauce, pancakes, poulyada with wild mushrooms, strawberry ice cream, Arabian coffee, caviar, and the warmth spilling in from the kitchen would have filled the air with a rosy glow and the smell of it all would have been enough to make his mouth water. But now there were only a few plates laden with buttered bread and three cups of tea that had been left to cool in the middle of the table where the champagne usually went.

They still hadn’t noticed him standing in the doorway. Pierre didn’t dare make a peep for fear of revealing himself.

Hélène leaned back in her chair with a quiet sigh and rested her head against Dolokhov’s shoulder. Dahanian cuddled up against her side and rested his head in her lap. Peeking out beneath the tablecloth, Pierre saw the grey-and-cream tuft of Samira’s tail.

“I can’t believe you’re still tired,” Dolokhov said to Anatole—evidently, he had caught them in mid-conversation. “You’ve slept long enough.”

“You know how he gets when he doesn’t have his midday nap,” Hélène grumbled.

Anatole huffed and rolled his eyes. “It isn’t my fault. I didn’t sleep well last night. And the settee gave me a crick in the neck.”

His voice came too hoarse and low. If Pierre hadn’t seen him speaking, he wouldn’t have believed a voice like that could have come from Anatole at all.

“Would a slice of buttered bread appease you, O grouchy one?” said Dolokhov.

Hélène chuckled.

Anatole huffed again. Pierre saw a dark shadow through the open collar of his shirt. “I don’t fancy buttered bread.”

“What would you fancy then, Tolya?” Hélène said patiently.

“Not buttered bread.”

“The cook isn’t here anymore,” she said. “If you’d like me to make you something, you need to ask.”

“Your cooking is horrendous,” he snipped.

“Don’t be such a brat.”

“It was a mistake, firing the staff. I don’t know what you were thinking, Lena. Who’s going to make the tea now?”

“I’ve already made you tea.”

Anatole wrinkled his nose. “You always put rum in it.”

“It’s not proper tea unless is has rum in it,” said Dolokhov. He reached over to ruffle Anatole’s hair. “We’re Russian, aren’t we?”

“If I’d told you that Fedya had made it, then you’d’ve downed the lot of it by now,” Hélène said, smirking.

“I wouldn’t’ve.”

“I should’ve made it myself,” Dolokhov mused. He turned to Anatole and squeezed his hand. “I apologize for subjecting you to your sister’s cooking.”

“Don’t be rude,” said Hélène.

“You’re fortunate you can throw a successful soirée, Lena,” Dolokhov continued. “Your home-making leaves much to be desired.”

 _Lena_. The intimacy of it. Too familiar, too casual.

Hélène swatted his shoulder with obvious jest. “Insult my home-making one more time and I’ll pour the rest of the samovar down the front of your shirt.”

Grinning, Dolokhov scraped off a wad of butter with a table knife and smeared it across the tip of her nose. Hélène gasped and slapped his hand away. The knife went clattering to the table.

Anatole laughed at last.

“See?” said Dolokhov. “He can still smile after all.”

Hélène shook her head despairingly as she wiped the butter off her nose, but she was smiling as well. “You two are incorrigible.”

It was a crystalline moment, at least, while he watched. The three of them. Innocent for the first time since he had met them. More than that, vulnerable.

Hélène reached under the table for Anatole’s hand. “Tolya, love, don’t you want to eat something?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“At least drink your tea.”

“It’s scalding,” Anatole said, and shoved his saucer away.

“Oh, Tolya,” sighed Hélène.

“She’s right, you know though, _dorogoj_ ,” said Dolokhov. “You ought to eat something. You have to keep up your strength.”

That gave Pierre pause. He and Khione exchanged a curious look. The gentle tone of Dolokhov’s voice didn’t mesh with the apparent sarcasm of his words, and not one of them had reacted as if this was anything out of the ordinary.

But then Dolokhov kissed Anatole’s temple in a weary, familiar sort of way, one hand on his cheek, and Anatole, without missing a beat, closed his eyes and leaned into Dolokhov’s shoulder with a content sigh, like lovers, like a husband and wife.

The sound that came out of Pierre wasn’t quite one of confusion or disgust, but something in between.

Anatole’s head shot up at the noise, quick as a startled animal. Dolokhov caught him around the waist before he could fall from his seat.

“Tolya?”

“Pierre,” Anatole said, more in alarm than in greeting.

It was too late to duck back into the hallway now. They had all seen him.

Dolokhov and Hélène stood up at the same time, just as Dahanian and Samira started to their feet. Dolokhov’s eyes blazed furiously, but Hélène’s were an icy, resolute calm, which was somehow even more chilling.

“What are you doing here?” Dolokhov snapped.

_Lena. Dorogoj._

Pierre fumbled with his words for a moment, before finally responding, “This is my home.”

“You aren’t welcome here.”

“Fedya,” Hélène said sternly. “That’s enough.”

A length of cloth had been bandaged around her wrist. It was no longer hidden, now that she was standing upright, now that her hands were no longer folded beneath that table.

“What is that?” Pierre said.

Hélène tensed. Seeing where his gaze had landed, she tucked her arm behind her back. “It’s nothing.”

“Her wrist is sprained,” Dolokhov said coldly. “I don’t suppose you know how it got that way.”

Pierre’s stomach dropped, and he fell silent, horrified but unsure of how to respond.

“Or Anatole’s neck, for that matter. It was quite—”

“Fyodor,” Hélène snapped, “I would thank you kindly not to take that tone with my husband.”

Samira wilted where she stood and retreated behind Dolokhov, who seemed torn between talking back to Hélène and lunging for the butter knife.

It did not escape Pierre’s notice that Dolokhov’s hand had drifted to the small of Hélène’s back, or how he angled himself so that he stood between her and the door.

He bit down a twinge of guilt, but it was quickly replaced with vindication.

“What are you doing here?” he said.

“Your wife sent for me. I don’t come into people’s homes uninvited,” said Dolokhov.

“Well, you can leave now. Hélène and I have a lot to discuss.”

“That we do,” said Hélène, in a strange, clipped voice. “Fedya, Anatole, you’re welcome to excuse yourselves until my husband and I have settled matters.”

Anatole’s eyes went wide. “Lena—?”

“I’m not leaving,” Dolokhov said.

“I’m not asking you to leave the house,” said Hélène.

Pierre, who had been asking just that, frowned.

“Go upstairs, Fedya,” she continued. “I’ll call if I need you, I promise.”

An unspoken sort of truce seemed to pass between them. Pierre saw no point in trying to argue any further on that front. He could tolerate it, so long as the two of them stayed out of sight and earshot. Even if they weren’t gone, it was gone enough for him.

“You two are welcome to stay in the spare bedroom,” he said. He paused, realizing that he had misspoken, and against his will, his mind flashed back to the kiss, the sigh, _dorogoj_. “The sitting room, I mean,” he amended.

Dolokhov raised an eyebrow. “I suppose I’ll move my things out of the master bedroom, then,” he said drily.

Pierre sucked in a sharp breath.

“Keep an eye on Tolya, would you?” said Hélène.

Dolokhov squeezed her hand. “I’ll be there if you need anything.”

Hélène gave him a small smile. “Of course.”

When he kissed her cheek, in a way that was far too casual and purposeful to be innocuous, he made a point of locking eyes with Pierre.

“I am not some dainty little invalid,” Anatole said, a full minute behind the flow of the conversation. “And I don’t need a governess to keep an eye on me.”

“They don’t want us in the room, Tolya.”

“Well, I didn’t want rum in my tea, but it’s not as if any of our wants are taken into consideration these days.”

Dolokhov laid one hand between Anatole’s shoulders, the other at his hip, and helped him to his feet in a gesture gentler than anything Pierre had ever thought him capable of. “Will you let me help you up the stairs?”

“I can walk on my own, thank you very much,” Anatole said crossly. At least, as crossly as he could manage when it hardly came out as more than a rasp.

Pierre’s gut sank a little further. That was his fault. As evident as the bruises his hand had left behind.

“I don’t want you falling and hurting yourself,” said Dolokhov.

It was just as well, too, because by now Anatole had begun to sway on his own feet, as unsteady as a sailor newly acquainted with land. He sighed in admission. “Just make sure I don’t trip. The floor was waxed and it’s still slippery.”

Dolokhov chuckled and ushered him around the table and out of the room. “Of course.”

Pierre couldn’t help but watch in silent bewilderment as they went down the hallway together, Dolokhov’s arm around Anatole’s waist, Anatole’s arm around Dolokhov’s shoulders, Samira trailing close behind them. There was a peculiar familiarity in their movements, in the way that Dolokhov easily adjusted to take Anatole’s weight, as if he had done this many times before. And Anatole moved just as easily with him, leaning in on instinct, like the second piece of a two-part puzzle, and the feeling that it stirred up in Pierre was both nameless and inexplicable, repulsive and desirous in equal measure.

He noticed that Hélène was staring at him. Watching him watching them.

“You came back,” she said flatly. “Why?”

Pierre swallowed, fidgeting with his hands. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the hallway, though Dolokhov and Anatole had disappeared down its bend by now.

“What do you want? You came back for a reason. Spit it out.”

“Where have the house staff gone? Where are Ivan and the maids and—?”

“They’ve all been let go,” she said. “I didn’t want word getting out about your little outburst.”

Ah. That explained the state of the house. But it didn’t explain the bandage around her wrist, or why she carried herself with all the nervous delicacy of a lampworker carrying a blown-glass figurine.

“I just…” he said. “Lena, did I hurt you?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Me? I’m not the one who was throttled half to death.”

Pierre’s eyes widened in horror, and his head snapped back towards her.

 _I am afraid I must ask you to leave. I despise you. Pierre, good man. Don’t you touch him. Go. I said_ —

Hadn’t meant to hurt. He hadn’t meant to hurt. Not even him, that bad man. That thoughtless, careless, _bad_ man.

Hélène hadn’t finished. “You ought to be grateful it wasn’t worse, what you did to him. The doctor said he’ll make a full recovery, God willing, but I don’t imagine the same could be said if I had left him alone with you last night.”

Surely she could hear his heart, how it thundered furiously in his ears. Shame threatened to choke off his voice. “When did the doctor come by?”

“After you left,” she said. “You will be footing the bill, of course.”

“Of course,” he echoed, his cheeks reddening.  

“I didn’t expect you to inquire after his health. There’s no need to feign pity. Just stay the hell away from him, or I’ll have Dolokhov shoot you where you stand.”

Pierre stiffened himself. There was still some pride left in him. Still some sense of honor and dignity, clumsy as it was. She hadn’t been able to stamp it out entirely.

“I won’t,” he said, “so long as he keeps away from Natasha Rostova.”

Hélène shook her head. “All of this for that girl. Was it worth it? Do you not feel any guilt at all for what you’ve done?”

Guilt. If he had felt that at one point, it had now been scorched out by fury.

“Do you?” he said.

Her lip twitched. “The only thing I regret in this world is not allowing Dolokhov to challenge you to a duel when he wanted to.”

“And what of Natasha? Have you no sympathy for her?”

“There is nothing,” she said tightly, “to feel sympathy for. Not with that daft little girl.”

Rage burned through him again. It kindled in his belly, shot through his limbs, made his hands twitch and tighten at his sides of their own accord. He was strongly tempted for a moment to seize the nearest chair and hurl it at the wall. Frighten her. Teach her the lesson she still had yet to learn.

Then disgust set in, in counterargument, self-hatred, even worse, _remorse_ , and he didn’t know which half of him would overpower the other.

“You deceived her,” he said, fighting to keep his voice level. “You lured her right to your brother. You let him—”

“Do you want to know what I did, Pierre?”

Pierre stopped, almost breathless, at the note of teasing cruelty in her voice. The dark hazel of her eyes glittered in a way that had once been enticing beyond words but now made his skin crawl.

“I gave her her first taste of excitement. I showed her that there was more to be had in life than being some man’s wife. I gave her a pretty dress, and I gave her a ball, and I gave her my brother.”

“No. You sullied her. You and Anatole, you tainted an innocent—”

“All we gave her was what she wanted,” Hélène snapped. “Nothing more, nothing less. That’s why you were so distraught, isn’t it? You couldn’t stomach the thought that she might have had desires of her own. _Innocent_. Heaven forbid she might want something more than innocence. Tell me, Pierre, was that how you envisioned me three years ago? Was that the sort of woman you wanted me to be?”

“What?” he said. “Innocent?”

“Whimsical. Malleable.”

He turned his head away and closed his eyes. His heart hung heavy in his throat. “All I ever wanted was your love.”

The silence that followed was agonizing. Pierre refused to open his eyes.

“You don’t believe me?” he said.

“Unfortunately, I do.”

“Well, there you have it.”

“You love her. Don’t you?”

At last, he found himself compelled to look at her again. Her face was rigidly schooled into blankness, but he heard a note of uncertainty that she hadn’t quite been able to hide.

He opened his mouth, about to deny it, but stopped himself short. Hélène was many things, but stupid was decidedly not one of them.

“Natasha? Yes. I suppose I do.”

She chuckled bitterly, a dry, choking sound. “I figured as much.”

Pierre snorted with her in a rare moment of marital almost-camaraderie despite everything that had happened. He was as disgusted by her part in Natasha’s ruin as she was incensed by him hurting Anatole, but the irony in discussing their respective romantic situations was too pointed to ignore.

“How did you know?” he asked, and for the first time in a while, there was barely any resentment or malice in his voice when he addressed her.

“You were cruel,” Hélène said quietly. “And nothing makes a person crueler than love.”

“You’d know better than I about cruelty,” Pierre snapped.

“I would ruin a hundred Natasha Rostovas for Anatole, and I would never lose sleep over it. You would threaten a child for her and call it honor. Love makes monsters of us all, husband, even you.”

“Anatole is not a child.”

“He might as well be. He is thoughtless and impulsive. He’s not unfeeling, but he rarely bears others in mind.”

“And yet you continue to defend him.”

“Of course.” She smiled to herself, something vulnerable and sweet that Pierre immediately knew was not for him. “I was there when he learned how to walk, the first time he smiled, and the first time he ever fell in love with someone he shouldn’t have. My mother used to say that his first word was _Lena_. He’s my brother, for all his flaws. Though I don’t imagine you’d be able to understand.”

Pierre sighed. It was unfortunately easy and uncomfortable at times like this to remember how just how young Hélène was. She rarely spoke about her childhood, but Pierre had met Vasily Kuragin and could only imagine what it must have been like to grow up with him.

And that was what made Hélène so damnably difficult to hate. Was it really just, he wondered, to hold her accountable for how miserable their marriage was when she had been as much a pawn in her father’s plans as he had?

“Do you ever wonder,” he began haltingly, “what we would have been like had we never married?”

“I would have been the same,” she said. At Pierre’s offended glare, she rolled her eyes. “I was always going to be handed off to some nobleman. If it wasn’t you, it would have just been someone else.”

“You really don’t think I’ve had any effect on your life?”

“Don’t be dense. I didn’t say that. But I could never care about you enough to change for you.”

“Was there ever a time you would have? Was there ever a chance we could have been happy together?”

Even now, after all this, still hopeful, still wanting.

She sighed. “No.”

The last little glimmer of hope in his heart, the one that had been precariously clinging to existence since the night in the study, flickered out into blackness. His shoulders dropped with it, a lead weight, a frozen pendulum, a stopped pulse. He heard the sweep of Dahanian’s tail against the floorboards, Khione’s shallow breaths, the quiet ticking of the wall-clock, and beyond that, all was deafeningly silent.

“I’ll grant you a divorce,” he said, more to the floor than to her. “If that’s what you want.”

Hélène scoffed. “How very generous of you.”

“It’s not generosity. I can’t continue acting as if I don’t know what you’ve done. A priest will dissolve our marriage if you confess your infidelity.”

“Which I won’t.”

Now, even now, after everything that transpired, she still wouldn’t find it in her to admit it out loud. Pierre felt some of his shame beginning to ebb away to satisfaction. He had already had proof enough in what he had seen, but somehow, her refusal to deny his accusation was more final.

“Be reasonable, Hélène.”

“I refuse to carry all of the blame for this.”

“You had an affair.”

 _Affairs_ , he thought. _Plural_. _Say it_.

“So help me God, Pierre,” she said, leaning forwards, and now her voice was cold and low in a way that made his stomach twist into knots, “if you mention anything about Dolokhov, if you so much as breathe a word about the taboo, then I’ll head right to the Church and let them all know what you did to Anatole and Danali.”

Pierre's heart stopped for a moment.

“Do you understand?”

“Fine,” he said. “Fine, then. We’ll invent some excuse. I’ll write the Bishop tomorrow and make my request.” He paused for a second, carefully planning out what he had to say next. “I’ll have to ask you to leave the house, of course. Once the proceedings are through.”

“Of course,” she repeated drily. “We wouldn’t want to create a scandal. I’ll have to arrange transportation for my brother and I. After all, I can’t leave him here alone. God knows what’ll happen if I let him out of my sight again. And God knows what you might try.”

Pierre’s eyes darted to the floor. He should have known it would circle back to Anatole. Inconsequential as he was—or had seemed, at least—things always did. He thought back to what he had said in the study, what he had seen, and his pulse quickened in disgust.

“Of course,” he said. “I’d be happy to help in any way I can.”

“I’m sure you would. We only need funds to buy tickets. Seeing as what was mine became yours when we married.”

Pierre frowned. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

“The Petersburg house. I’m sure my parents will be thrilled to see us again.”

The tone of her voice indicated that this wasn’t entirely true. He didn’t bother to question it. Not now, not when caring took too much energy.

“How much do you require?” he said. “Eight hundred? Would that be enough for the both of you?”

Hélène paused for a moment of consideration. “Twelve hundred.”

Twelve hundred. Enough for three tickets and then some. Well, he supposed, he couldn’t blame a woman of her stature and upbringing for wanting to travel in comfort.

He nodded, pushing his spectacles further up his nose. “Very well. It’s only fair.”

“I’m glad you agree.”

“I do wish you the best.”

“Save your breath. If I never hear from you again, it’ll be too soon.”

“I know,” he said. “I understand.”

“No, I don’t think you do. You ruined my life. You made me afraid in my own home. There’s nothing more you can say to me.”

A week ago, he would have wept to hear those words. But he was too empty for tears. Nothing was left, now. Nothing but the dull fury in her eyes and the awkward set of his jaw and the clench of his heart as he struggled to choke out a strangled, “I see.”

“If you need me,” she said, “I shall be in my room with my brother and Captain Dolokhov.”


	14. A Prayer for Prince Bolkonsky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha experiences a change in perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you dig our work, check out our other active fic, 'On the Lam'!
> 
> On a more serious note, there was some stuff that happened this week in the TGC fandom on tumblr that made both of us kind of feel off. Neither of us were involved, and without going into detail/ naming names, we just wanted to throw in our two cents and say that if nothing else, we are united by this beautiful show, that is about failing and learning how to grow, and the idea that human connection can arise out of making mistakes. Please extend understanding and compassion to each other. We're always struck by the kindness all of you have graced us with.

Natasha couldn’t remember a time she had ever seen a church this empty. The pews which had been filled to bursting last Sunday now stretched, endless and bare, like the naked branches of a tree, and though the chorus was leading the processors in singing the Trisagion from their seats in the quire and the hall was filled with music and echoing voices, to Natasha’s ears, all was silent. Once, she had dreamed of a wedding in this church. Now, in the dim candlelight and the glow of the marble floor-tiles, the attendants seemed as scattered and retreating as shadows.

Prince Bolkonsky, Marya had said, had once been one of most revered members of Moscow society. If this was what came of his death, Natasha shuddered to imagine a pauper’s funeral.

A string of words looped around the sides of his coffin, gleaming gold against the mahogany paneling: _Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, Have Mercy on Us_. On one panel, opposite where Prince Bolkonsky’s feet would have been laid to rest, there was a gold leaf ornamentation in the shape of a tall, squarely-built dog, and beneath that, the engraved name of his dæmon— _Hortense_.

As for poor Andrei, there was no body to bury, not even an official announcement of death, nothing but a footnote tacked onto the end of his father’s eulogy.

Natasha bowed her head as the procession moved past her pew. The candle in her hands flickered. She held one palm over the unsteady flame and cradled it to her chest. This much, she could do. This much, she could protect.

If the service lasted an hour, it may just as well have been a century. All the while, Natasha did not shed so much as a single tear. She sat, stony-faced, her lips moving for the prayers and hymns as if by rote, rising and sitting as if pulled by invisible strings. Her movements felt disjointed and surreal. The muscles and tendons and ligaments that controlled her were no longer her own.

Then Marya’s hand settled on her shoulder, and on her other side, Sonya placed a hand on her knee, drawing her back to Earth. An anchor. A beacon.

Tobery purred, a deep, comforting rumble, and Adrastos fluttered over to the backrest of the pew to lean his head against his shoulder and nuzzle into his fur.

She was grateful for it beyond words.

Afterwards, once the service and interment were through, the mourners traveled by troika to Bolkonsky House, an old-fashioned estate on Vozdvizhenka Street with powdered footmen and tall ceilings and long, dark corridors lined with mirrors. Stepping into the front hall, Natasha felt as if she had entered some sort of aerial toll house. When she turned her head to the side, she saw a dozen Natashas looking back at her, reflected down an endless hallway.

She thought of Sonya’s fortune-telling game. But now there were no visions of the future, no silhouettes, nothing but herself and Adrastos in the mirror, so small and lost and alone.

Salman appeared in her peripheral vision before she even saw Marya’s approaching reflection from behind. Two streaks of color, gold and red, like twin candle lights.

“Natalya, dear?” Marya said quietly. “Are you hiding from us?”

Adrastos turned and buried his face in her hair. Natasha wished she could have done the same. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, my darling. I understand. Come here, _dushenka_.”

Marya enfolded Natasha in her arms. She smelled faintly of peppermint and orange pekoe tea, just as she had five years ago. Warm and comforting and achingly familiar. Whatever else had changed, this hadn’t.

"I'm sorry," Natasha whispered again.

“You've nothing to apologize for. But we still should go and greet the others. You ought to pay your respects.”

Natasha nodded and followed her through the doorway into the reception hall.

The curtains here had been drawn, and the only light in the room came from the fireplace, but even that was beginning to flicker out. In one corner she saw Princess Mary Nikolayevna Bolkonskaya, a tall, frail-looking woman, made even more so by the overwhelming darkness of her dress. While the other attendants milled about in near-silence with plates of candle-laden kolyva and blini and fish pie, she stood by a dusty green armchair, staring out the window to the streets below.

Natasha wrought her hands together. She willed her feet to move, but they stayed firmly rooted in place.

“Go and talk to her,” said Adrastos. “What’s keeping you?”

Natasha shook her head. “I’m frightened.”

“It’s the least you can do, Tasha. Think of how she must feel.”

Her knuckles had gone white. Biting her lip and clenching her fingers together, Natasha swallowed down her fear and crossed the room in three quick strides.

“Princess Bolkonskaya,” she said. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

Mary turned at the sound of her voice. Her face was tight and pale, prematurely wrinkled around the eyes, or perhaps that was only because she had recently been crying. At her shoulder sat a shrew with twitchy whiskers and a long, pink tail.

A same-sex dæmon, Natasha noticed, though she wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it.

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I know who you are,” Mary said.

Cheeks burning, Natasha ducked her head. “My name is Natalya Rostova. I’m…I was Andrei’s fiancée.”

“Oh,” Mary said quietly. “I didn’t realize you were here.”  

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no, don’t apologize, please.”

“I had to come. I know it wasn’t a proper goodbye for your brother, but I had to—”

“I’m glad that you did.”

“I’m glad too.”

Mary looked down at the armchair and ran one hand along the rim of the backrest. In its seat cushion was a well-worn dip, in the fabric of the armrest was the faded outline of someone’s hands, and a pair of shoes had left a faint impression in the rug. This had been someone’s favorite seat once. Perhaps Prince Bolkonsky used to sit here to watch the fireplace on cold winter nights, with the curtains drawn and a tray of incense burning on the table. Or perhaps this was where Andrei had once settled to read or play guitar. She imagined him sitting there again, alive as he had been the last time she had seen him, when his skin had been warm from the summer Sun and the calluses of his palms had felt as natural and familiar as her own hands.

But she would never have that again. She would never sit in this chair with him to watch the Sun set over the Moskva. She would never take tea with Prince Bolkonsky and charm him into loving her as he would his own daughter. She would never have Mary as a sister and a confidante. There would be no wedding, no Christmas dinners, no baptisms. Nothing but this sad, empty house and this sad, empty armchair.

“I’m only sorry we had to meet like this,” said Natasha. “I…I had hoped to visit you sooner, when I first arrived in Moscow.”

Mary sniffled. “So am I. Andrei used to write to tell us about you.”

That, of all things, was what almost sent her over the verge of tears. Natasha felt them burning hotly in her eyes, and she tried to blink them away.

“I think he loved you very much,” Mary continued.

“I know,” Natasha said softly.

“My father wasn’t in his right mind towards the end, but I think if you had met him earlier, before—if Andrei hadn’t left.” Mary paused, evidently unsure of how to continue. “I suppose it was for the best, that he didn’t understand. He didn’t have to know about poor Andryusha. At least they’re together now.”

“I’d like to think you’re right,” Natasha said quietly.

“Yes,” Mary said, seemingly to herself. “It’s right that they’re together now.”

Natasha laid a hand on top of Mary’s and offered her a timid smile. “You don’t have to be alone, Princess. There are people here who care about you. In fact, I quite like the idea of our being friends.”

Mary’s eyes darted to the floor. She drew her hand away from Natasha’s. “I don’t think that will be possible.”

Natasha’s smile melted in dismay, her hopes with it. For a moment, she wondered which of them would burst into tears first, and she prayed it wouldn’t be her. “I’m sorry?”

“I can’t stay in this city any longer. We were supposed to return to the Bald Hills, and then Papa got sick and my brother left for deployment. I’ve been in this house for three years. There’s nothing left for me here.”

Guilt settled on her tongue, stale and dry. Three years in this house. Three years of darkened halls and the smell of dust and a brother gone and a father here but just as well as gone. How could a person have lived through that and not lost their mind?

Natasha nodded and forced out a stilted, “I see.”

“I’m leaving for Petersburg in a few days,” Mary continued. “Madame Scherer has been kind enough to invite me to stay with her till things are sorted.”

At that, as if summoned by Mary’s words, a tall blonde woman with dark eyebrows and a sharp nose appeared in the doorway, her eyes keen and grey, her dress cut from expensive-looking satin. Natasha’s heart stopped, because for a moment, it looked as if she had no dæmon.

No—she did, and Natasha just hadn’t been looking close enough to notice until now. He was a small orange butterfly, delicately-winged, so tiny that he was almost invisible in the darkness of the room. Natasha’s heart slowed in relief.

“Masha, darling, there you are,” the woman said, and crossed the room to embrace Mary and kiss her cheeks. “I thought I’d lost you for a minute. How are you holding up?”

Mary blew her nose into her handkerchief. Her shrew-dæmon ran her paws over her whiskers, almost mirroring Mary’s hands. “Miserably.”

The woman sighed. “Do try to brighten up a little, dearest. You’ll make the guests feel unwelcome.”

It was with those words that Natasha decided that she did not like this woman at all. How dare she come and swoop in like a vulture and then have the nerve to scold, after all that had happened.

But Mary looked more abashed than annoyed, and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Hello,” Natasha cut in quickly, hoping to spare Mary further embarrassment. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

The woman fixed her with a lofty smile. “Anna Pavlovna Scherer.”

Natasha flushed. “Countess Natalya Ilyinichna Rostova.”

“Ah, the little countess,” Anna Pavlovna said. “My God, what a lovely thing you’ve grown into. You’re the spitting image of your mother, you know that? It’s the Shinshin nose. Her eyes, too. You hardly came up to my hip the last time we met. I almost didn’t recognize you at Countess Bezukhova’s little to-do the other week.”

Natasha pressed her lips into a thin line as Adrastos buried his claws in her sleeve. The memory of that night smarted like a smack to the face. She had tried to stamp it out altogether, and when she hadn’t been able to do that, pushed it into the darkest recesses of her mind.

Now, of all times, it had to return to her.

“Yes, I remember,” she said tightly.

“You and Prince Anatole looked so charming together.”

Natasha scrambled for some kind of response to that, but all she could do was gape in silence.

“I must say, I was more than a little surprised to see you dancing with him. The things I’ve heard…” Her voice trailed off and she fanned herself, her butterfly-dæmon fluttering at her wrist like some exotic flower. “Well, let’s say he has a reputation with young ladies.”

Adrastos flinched.

“I’m well aware,” said Natasha.

Anna Pavlovna laughed at that, as if she were at one of her Sunday tea parties rather than a funeral reception. “Ah, well. A little fun is alright every now and then. Especially with an upbringing like yours, so far in the country. That’s all the city men are really good for anyhow.”

Natasha thought of Hélène and the low cut of her neckline and the purr of her voice and the glittering string of pearls around her throat. She thought of Anatole, poised and polished and silver and gleaming, and in that moment, she despised them both, and she despised herself for having been so enthralled by them, and she despised Anna Pavlovna for reminding her of them when the dirt on Prince Bolkonsky’s grave was still fresh and loosely-packed, when Andrei didn’t even have a proper grave to himself, when poor Princess Mary was looking closer and closer to tears with every passing second.

But Anna Pavlovna only continued, oblivious to Natasha’s silently-stewing fury, “They’re quite an interesting lot, the Kuragins. Countess Bezukhova certainly knows how to host a soirée, though I suppose she won’t be Countess Bezukhova for much longer.”

Natasha furrowed her brow.

“Oh, you haven’t heard? They’ve requested a divorce. The Count has been haranguing the Bishop with letters for weeks. Rather successfully, I hear.”

At that, Mary, who had been so quiet that until this point Natasha had almost forgotten about her, let out a scandalized gasp and crossed herself.

Natasha frowned. She hadn’t imagined Pierre would be the sort of person to divorce his wife. Was this what happened, she wondered, when you brought a soldier to the opera instead of your husband?

Marya Dmitrievna had had the right idea about them all along.

“Should we really be discussing this?” said Mary.

Anna Pavlovna patted Mary on the shoulder. “It’s alright, dearie. No one’s going to eavesdrop. It’s a little bit of harmless chatter, really.”

“And is Prince Kuragin still staying with them?” Natasha asked.

If anything, it was more out of morbid curiosity than concern. She shouldn’t have cared where he was. It shouldn’t have mattered to her whether he had taken up residence in the Kremlin or in the gutter on Nikitsky Boulevard. But it was like poking her tongue at the socket of a newly-lost tooth—painful, pointless, and despite it all, too transfixing to resist.

“I'm not sure. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen either of them in ages,” said Anna Pavlovna. “They’re not usually the antisocial sort. Not like Bezukhov. One would almost think they’d vanished into thin air.”

Natasha could have scoffed. No doubt, they hadn’t even been able to muster up the compassion to attend a funeral. But, she had to concede, it was probably for the best that they hadn’t shown up. If she saw either of them again, she wasn’t sure what would keep her from doing something undignified like spitting on the floor at their feet.

“Perhaps they’ve been ill,” Mary offered, almost hopefully.

Anna Pavlovna did not look pleased with this. “Perhaps.”

“We ought to say a prayer for their health. It’ll be good for us, in these difficult times.”

“I’m sure you’re right, dear,” Anna Pavlovna said. “But we should be off soon. You’ve been dawdling in this corner for the past twenty minutes. The others guests will start to think they’ve shown up for your funeral as well.”

Mary looked back at the other attendants as if she had only just realized they were still there. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“I apologize,” Natasha said, blushing. “I didn’t mean to keep you.”

Anna Pavlovna shepherded Mary away to the center of the parlor, where Marya Dmitrievna and the Drubetskoys had gathered.

Natasha watched her go with a quiet sigh.

Something bumped into her shoulder. Natasha startled and turned her head to see Sonya hovering at her side, Tobery clinging to the hem of her skirt so closely that he was almost standing on it. Her face was lily-white against the black of her dress, and all the rosy flush had drained from her cheeks, even though it made her auburn hair glow brilliantly. On any other occasion, she would have looked festive, but now, she looked like the most finely-dressed ghost in all of Moscow.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

Natasha tried forcing herself to smile. It came out, more than anything, like a grimace. “How well can anyone be after all this?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. I’ll be fine eventually.”

Sonya’s hands were small and warm on Natasha’s wrists. She took in a deep breath, as if bracing herself for what she had to say next. “I’ve made an important decision today. And I don’t want you to try and talk me out of it, because it won’t work, and it’ll only make me even more stubborn.”

Natasha stared expectantly.

“I’ve decided that I can’t bear the thought of marrying when you can’t. I won’t be Nikolai’s wife if you can’t be Andrei’s.”

Natasha blinked. “You can’t be serious.”

“I very much am.”

 _Oh, Sonya_ , she thought. Kind Sonya. Selfless, willful, stubborn, short-sighted Sonya. Marya would have her head once she caught wind of this, and that was assuming she hadn’t found out already. If Sonya was even cognizant of this, which Natasha was almost certain she was, she clearly wasn’t bothered.

It was just as thoughtful as it was thoughtless.

“You know you don’t have to do this,” Natasha said.

“I want to. It’s my own choice.”

“Sonya…”

Sonya gathered Natasha’s hands in her own and held them under her chin. “You know that I only want you to be happy, Tasha.”

“I won’t be unhappy if you marry Nikolai. I’ll be happy for you. I’ll be so full of joy that I might burst. You know that.”

“Nikolai will wait for me,” she said, with such earnest conviction that Natasha found herself believing it without even questioning why. “ _We’ll_ wait for you.”

Something in Natasha’s heart folded in a swell of mixed relief and guilt. Was it selfish of her, not to protest? Probably. But selfishness was so easy, and she didn’t have the energy for anything else. She had grabbed hold of it with both hands, and as cruel as it was, she still couldn’t find it in her to let go.

“Thank you,” she breathed.

Sonya had never been prone to indulging in grandiose gestures of affection, and it was equally unusual for her to do so in a public setting, but when they embraced, it was warm and grounding and everything Natasha wanted and exactly what she needed, and her heart swelled with every beat until she was sure her cousin could feel it pounding against her chest.

“I love you, Tasha,” Sonya whispered.

“I love you too, Sonyushka.”

They drew away from each other. Sonya kissed Natasha on the cheek and squeezed her hands again. “It’ll all work out in the end,” she said. “You’ll see.”

“Countess Rostova?” someone said.

Natasha turned her head to the voice. “Count Bezukhov.”

Pierre’s title rattled out of her like a gasp. She had every right to be surprised—given the size of him, it made no sense that she hadn’t heard his or his dæmon’s footsteps approaching.

He looked, to put it kindly, dreadful. It was evident from the puffiness of his eyes that he had been crying, though that didn’t explain the tangled mess of his hair or the disarray of his collar or the overgrowth of his beard. Natasha wondered whether it was a bed or a bar he had stumbled out of this morning, or if he had tripped and fallen into a gutter on his way to Church.

And the oddest thing of all was that she found it a little endearing.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said bashfully.

“Not at all,” said Natasha, which was a lie.

Sonya’s eyes darted back and forth between the two of them. Her face was confused for a moment, but it quickly gave way understanding. An amused half-smiled curled the corner of her mouth.

“I’ll leave you two in peace,” she said.

“Thank you, Sofia Alexandrovna,” Pierre said. Then, to Natasha, he asked, “Would you like to take a walk, Countess?”

“I would love to,” said Natasha.

Sonya gave her hand another squeeze and slipped away back into the throng of departing attendants, and Natasha took in a breath she hadn’t even realized she had been putting off.

Pierre led her down an empty hallway, away from the rest of the attendees. A whiff of perfume and dust drifted in from the parlor, carried by a draft. Moscow had only just begun to shrug off the chill of winter, but it had found refuge here. Skin crawling with gooseflesh, Natasha shivered and drew her shawl tightly across her shoulders, grateful for the heavy warmth of her skirt.

“You looked like you could do with some time away from everyone,” Pierre said softly.

He and his bear-dæmon took up almost the entire breadth of the corridor. They moved awkwardly, swaying side-to-side as they went, as if they weren’t entirely used to walking on land. Natasha almost laughed despite herself.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “That was very kind of you.”

“Are you doing alright?”

The tears returned with a vengeance. A hot lump rose in her throat. Natasha shrugged and wiped her eyes when they began to burn again.

Pierre looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry. That was a stupid question.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “It’s just…everyone keeps saying that they understand, but they don’t. Because _I_ don’t.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“How am I supposed to feel?”

Pierre frowned and stopped in his tracks. “Natasha?”

Natasha wrung her hands together, hoping that she might just wring an answer out of them. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I miss him. I miss him so much it hurts. I’m angry at him for leaving in the first place.”

“Natasha—”

“But the worst part is that I feel relieved. And then I feel guilty for feeling relieved.”

“Relieved?”

Natasha lowered her voice. “That he’ll never have to know.”

 _About Anatole_ , she finished in her head, and then instantly decided that she would rather die than say it aloud.

Pierre didn’t need to hear it either. With a heavy sigh, his face crumpled into something halfway between disappointment and anger, and it filled her with burning shame, and she drew her arms around herself, hoping to disappear altogether into the folds of her dress if the floor couldn’t open up fast enough to swallow her.

“Terrible. Isn’t it?” she said.

There was a long pause.

“Your feelings are your own,” said Pierre, his face softening. “You don’t need to explain them to me.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry for all of this.”

“It’s not me you want to apologize to.”

Her eyes filled with tears again. “I’m never going to be able to make this better with him. I can’t even give him a proper apology. God, Pierre, what was I thinking? I can’t go back in there.”

Pierre’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Gently, he laid a hand on her shoulder. His palm was almost as wide as her finger span. Sonya had once said that Natasha had the hands of a bird. If that was true, then Pierre’s hands must have been those of a bear.

“God only knows I’ve done things that I regret, Natasha,” he said. “All we can do is try to be better.”

“That’s not enough. Not for everything I’ve done wrong.”

“But I think it’s a good place to start. And you have to start somewhere.”

Natasha sighed and closed her eyes. She didn’t deserve this, she told herself.

She felt Pierre drawing away from her and placed her own hand on top of his to keep him from leaving. Pierre almost jumped at her touch.

“Come to tea with us this Friday, would you?” she said. “My godmother’s been asking after your company. And I’d very much like to see you as well.”

Pierre offered her a nervous smile. “I’d like that very much.”


	15. Daylight Express to Petersburg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The train ride from Moscow to Petersburg is quite long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thanks for reading our newest instalment of 'people make bad decisions feat. animals' 
> 
> Please note that there is some references to period-typical homophobia
> 
> We apologize for the gratuitous french! Both of us speak it, and we couldn't resist the opportunity :)

The issue with traveling with people who knew each other as well as the Kuragins did, Fedya supposed, was that they also knew all the best ways to piss each other off. Putting Anatole and Hélène into the same train compartment for an extended period of time generally had the same effect as firing a cannon into a minefield, and he had been waiting on the inevitable explosion for almost four hours by now.

It came, as it usually did, when Hélène decided it would be more entertaining to fray her brother’s nerves than enjoy the ride in peace.

“Would you stop that?” Anatole snapped, bouncing one leg against the bench. “You’re setting me on edge.”

Without looking up from her makeup compact, which she had been fiddling with for the better part of the past hour, Hélène asked innocently, “Stop what, Tolya?”

She was only feigning ignorance to irritate him. That much was obvious. They weren't even halfway to Petersburg and she had already re-applied her lipstick two or three times, lightening the shade with each iteration. The cut of her neckline was laughably high, the sort of thing Marya Dmitrievna would’ve worn to Church, and even in the heat of the compartment, she still hadn’t taken off her gloves.

Anatole tutted and shuffled in his seat. “Stop fussing. You look fine. You _know_ that you look fine.”

“It’s not my fault you’re such a twitchy little thing.”

“I didn’t ask to be made this way. If you want to blame someone, blame God.”

Hélène shot him a withering look. With a loud click, the compact fell shut. She paused for a moment to tuck a curl behind her ear and then opened it again.

A vein pulsed in Anatole’s forehead. Scowling, he folded and unfolded his legs and pulled at the fabric of his waistcoat to straighten it, which only set it at an even more off-kilter angle. Danali’s fur stood on end as if she had been shocked with static.

“For Christ’s sake," said Hélène, "do you really have to keep fidgeting like that?”

“The seat’s hurting my back. I’m trying to find a comfortable position.”

“Then find one and sit still.”

“I’ll sit still when you stop fussing. You’re turning into that old cow Scherer, you know that?”

Fedya and Samira exchanged a look of amusement. It was a small mercy, at least, that Hélène had ordered them a compartment to themselves. But the bickering didn’t bother him—he had already read the newspapers cover-to-cover, and there wasn’t much else to do to pass the time unless he wanted to stare out the window at the scenery.

This was entertainment enough.

“Tolenka, darling,” Hélène said, in a saccharine voice, “do you ever wonder if a man of your size could fit through the window?”

“No, but I think your luggage would fit quite neatly. What do you think, Lena? Shall we have a go at it and see?”

Hélène clicked the compact shut. “For the sake of politeness as well as your own dignity, I’m going to ignore that last comment.”

To which Anatole huffed and allowed his feet to slide out from beneath him until he was lying almost flat on his back with his legs stretched across the compartment. The navy of his waistcoat was almost startling in comparison to its usual white. It made him look smaller, or perhaps it was the tension of his shoulders and the new fretfulness of his posture that seemed to have stolen a few inches of height. Once, Anatole had walked with all the grace of a ballet dancer. Now he moved as if he were afraid of breaking a bone.

Not for the first time that day, Fedya was gripped by the urge to jump off the train, march back to 1867 Prechistensky Boulevard, and challenge Pierre to a duel in the kitchen. If the divorce hadn’t gone through so quickly, he may well have already done just that.

The necessary proceedings had taken only a few weeks—less than they had dreaded, but too long for comfort—and the interim had been awkward to the point of unbearability. For his own ease of mind and without so much as considering a word of protest, Fedya had invited himself to stay at in the guest bedroom until the separation had officially been granted. And Hélène, meanwhile, had all but barricaded herself in the west wing with Anatole to keep her company, which probably explained why the two of them seemed on the verge of resorting to fisticuffs.

The compact went _click_ again. Scowling, Anatole reached over and flicked it, upending it, and spilled powder down the front of Hélène’s skirt. Dahanian leapt to the bench with a snarl. Hélène shot to her feet with a furious, “Dammit, Anatole!”

Anatole shrugged. “I did tell you to stop.”

Hélène switched to French: “ _Pourquoi est-ce que tu l’as fait? Est-ce que je t’ai dérangé? Est-ce que tu t’es ennuyé? Ou est-ce que tu veux seulement que maman me ridicule quand—?_ ”

“ _Parce que tu m’énervais et je ne voulais pas entendre ce bruit à nouveau._ ”

“ _T’as ruiné ma robe et je n’aurai pas le temps pour changer mes vêtements avant d’arriver_ —”

“ _C’est n’importe quoi! Détends-toi, ou tu te rendrais malade._ ”

The argument continued from there in a whirlwind frenzy of French that Fedya neither had the ability nor the will to parse together. Even to his untrained ears, Hélène’s accent was muddied and stilted; words came slowly to her, hastily spat out and clumsily-assembled. But Anatole sounded as comfortable as if he were slipping back into his first language. Stranger than it was to see Hélène struggling in conversation was the fact that, for once, Anatole seemed to have the upper hand.

Perhaps their personalities were different in different languages. Perhaps Anatole had saved all his smarts for French.

 _Christ_ , Fedya thought. _No wonder he sounds so dumb in Russian_.

“ _Si tu te conduisais comme ça quand tu m’as venu il y a deux ans_ —”

Whatever Hélène had said, it must have been something ridiculous, because Danali chittered in amusement, cutting her off midway through, and Anatole said, in a condescending tone, “ _T’_ as _venu, Hélène? Tu t’en sors? Quand tu_ es _venu_ —”

“Shut up,” she snapped in Russian.

“You really ought to practice. Mama and Papa will think Moscow has made you sound _nouveau-riche_. Provincial.”

“ _Va te faire foutre_.”

“No, no, no, you’re going about it all wrong. Your r’s sound too Russian. And you’re talking in the back of your mouth. You speak French with your tongue, not your tonsils.”

Samira gave a snort. Fedya did a better job of hiding his.

“I didn’t ask for a lecture,” said Hélène.

“I’m trying to help you,” Anatole said.

“Well, I don’t need your help.”

Anatole rolled his eyes and said something in English, of which Fedya managed to catch one word. It was a word he had heard uttered under the breath of a frustrated Scotsman visiting Moscow during a rather one-sided game of Boston. Fedya had left the tavern that night with his pockets stuffed full and a few foreign swear words rattling around in his brain like marbles. This one in particular he was fond of: _bullshit_.

“I’ll put you through the window,” Hélène said, scrubbing at the new powder stain on her skirt. “I swear, I’ll do it.”

“You didn’t even understand what I said.”

“I didn’t understand. But knowing you, it was something insulting. And you only said it to show off.”

“You’re the one who started with the French. Don’t go pointing your finger at me.”

“That’s different. I can understand French.”

“And I can understand English.”

“No, you can’t.”

“I can understand a bit of English.”

“Only you,” she huffed.

Fedya, eager to prove her wrong and equally eager to impress, leaned over and said, in his best accent, one of the few words of English that he knew: “ _Jackass_.”

Anatole’s face split into a delighted grin. He kissed Fedya soundly on the cheek. “Look at this, Lena. Even _notre paysan_ knows a bit of English.”

“I hate you both,” said Hélène. “You’re horrid, rude beasts who don’t care about anyone but yourselves.”

Fedya and Anatole laughed in tandem.

“I should’ve left you in Moscow. I should’ve saved the ticket money for myself, you ungrateful sods.”

“Oh, do lighten up, Lena,” said Anatole.

Hélène gave a great heave of defeat and slumped back against the bench. With one hand, she stretched out the fabric of her skirt to show them the stain, where the powder had sunk in like a flesh-colored cloud. “Look at this. Look what you’ve done, Anatole.”

“It’s velvet. No one can see it except you,” he said.

“If I can see it, then other people will be able to see it as well.”

“For God’s sake, Lena, it’s only a little stain,” Fedya snapped. “Why are you fretting over this?”

“She’s afraid Mama will point it out,” said Anatole.

“ _He_ doesn’t have to worry,” Hélène said, tossing the compact into her reticule. “He’s her favorite. Can’t do anything wrong in her eyes, can you, Toto?”

“You have Papa,” Anatole reminded her.

“I don’t know why I even bother. It’s not as if she won’t just find something else to crucify me for.”

“At least you don’t have Papa out for your blood.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. He wouldn’t be letting you back if he wanted you dead.”

“Unless he wants to do it himself.”

Fedya sighed. It was like wrangling small children. That, or dogs. Hardly a difference between them anyhow.

“At least we’re going to a more interesting city, even if you two are going to keep being miserable,” he said.

They turned, in perfect synchronization, to glare at him. He could practically see the gears turning in their heads as they tried to figure out whether or not they had just been insulted.

Surprisingly, it was Hélène who burst out laughing first. “You’re such an ass.”

“So coarse,” said Anatole.

Fedya shot them a crooked grin and leaned back in his seat. Anatole was right—it was murderously uncomfortable, even in first-class, but he could tolerate it so long as he had their company to distract him. “Tell me about Petersburg,” he said. “If it’ll keep you lot from trying to bite each other’s heads off for five minutes.”

And with that, it was if a lever had been flipped. Faces lit with genuine delight, they straightened in their seats, their dæmons’ eyes glittering and bright, and began to speak excitedly.

“It’s beautiful,” Hélène said.

“The most beautiful city in all of Russia,” said Anatole. “All the world.”

“Far more exciting than Moscow.”

“More fashionable too. We’ll have to pay a visit to the Great Gostiny Dvor once we’re all sorted. We can’t have you wandering around Piter dressed like that.”

“Have you ever seen a ballet at the Mariinsky Theatre? What am I thinking, asking you that? Of course you haven’t. We’ll have to take you sometime. I know you only pretend not to enjoy the opera. You’d love the ballet.”

“It’s boring as hell,” Anatole cut in. “But the dancers’ legs. Christ. Exquisite.”

“And to think they call your sister a harlot,” Fedya said drily.

Anatole shrugged. “I love beautiful things.”

“He’s not wrong,” said Hélène. “There was this one at the Hermitage Theatre. Svetlana something-or-other. She was the prima ballerina in the company a few years ago. I used to leave her a bouquet of roses after every performance and she’d meet me around the back.”

Anatole raised an eyebrow. “Svetlana Lavrenova?”

“You know her?”

He smiled, catlike. “In a manner of speaking.”

Hélène crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “Did you fuck her?”

Fedya bristled, more uncomfortable than he should have been, having known them and their ways for this long. Entertaining as they were, the Kuragins were irredeemably odd people, almost as much as they were enthralling.

For starters, a better question would have been: _Who in Russia haven’t you fucked?_

Anatole shook his head in disapproval. “We didn’t fuck, Lena. That’s so crude. We made love. There’s a difference.”

“You two are absolutely ridiculous,” said Fedya.

“How many times?” Hélène pressed.

“Nosy.” A beat. “Four.”

Hélène cackled. “Amateur.”

He should have gone for a stroll down the corridor. A long stroll, to the last railcar, where he could jump off the end of the train and walk back to Moscow with Samira and his carpetbag.

“What do you mean, ‘amateur’? That’s nothing to sneeze at.”

Hélène didn’t stop laughing.

Anatole turned to Fedya with a frazzled look. “ _Mon Dieu_ , you can’t do right for doing wrong.”

Fedya pinched the bridge of his nose, uncomfortably reminded of the time he had been a Svetlana. It had been two years ago, at one of Hélène’s Moscow soirées, well after he had met them individually but not both at the same time, Hélène at a gala dinner and Anatole during deployment in Poland the year before.

In his defense, the family resemblance wasn’t evident until you took a close look. Or, in his case, until Anatole had walked in on him unlacing Hélène’s dress and remarked that she should at least have had the decency to share. Fedya had never re-dressed so quickly in his life, and for the rest of the night, the two of them hadn’t been able to stop laughing at the fact that they both had—not for the first time, evidently—managed to unknowingly sleep with the same person.

“Such a lovely quiet little thing,” Anatole continued, clearly hoping to steer the conversation back in a more favorable direction.

“She wasn’t quiet. Not if you knew what you were doing.”

Fedya snorted. Anatole flushed indignantly, and Danali poked her head out of his waistcoat to hiss.

“Ah, well,” he said finally. “I doubt she’s still there.”

Hélène sighed as if deep in remembrance, as if she were picturing Svetlana Lavrenova sitting in the compartment with them. “A pity. She was stunning. Her and her legs.”

Fedya scowled at the thought of what she was almost definitely imagining. But he mustn’t have been as subtle as he had hoped.

“I think we’ve upset him, Tolya,” Hélène said in a stage-whisper.

Anatole sniggered. “Heaven forbid.”

Hélène’s hand reached across the compartment and gently teased at the collar of his shirt. “There’s no need to feel insecure, Fyedka.”

“I’m not insecure,” said Fedya, a little too forcefully.

“He is rather lacking in comparison,” Anatole said. “Especially where his legs are concerned.”

“You brat.”

“He makes up for it with his shoulders, though,” he continued, smoothing one hand across Fedya’s back, almost as if to mollify him.

It worked too damn well.

“And those eyes,” Hélène said. Her hand drifted to his beard. “Beautiful, aren’t they? I’ve always been so fond of green.”

“But they’d be nothing without the eyelashes.”

Fedya’s face grew hot. Warmth bloomed in his stomach, and it set a nervous sort of energy bouncing around in his chest. They were snakes, these two. He imagined Danali and Dahanian as serpents, when they were younger, before they had settled, and for a moment, he felt that the ermine and snow leopard were pitifully suited to their human counterparts.

“Shut it,” he said, because he had no idea what else to say.

The two of them laughed. Had they rehearsed this routine before? Had they been scheming in that house for the past three weeks, waiting to spring it on him once they had him alone? There was no way of knowing. It was maddening and thrilling all at once.

“So rude, though,” Hélène tutted.

“Not well-spoken at all, I agree.”

“What do you think, Tolya?”

Anatole heaved a dramatic sigh. “I suppose we ought to keep him.”

“Yes,” Hélène mused. “Yes, I think you’re right.”

The heat in his gut drifted further south. His heart buzzed and burned, a stack of lit gunpowder. _Greedy_ , said the voice in his head. _Greedy_ was what they had called him. _Greedy_ for wanting the both of them, _greedy_ for hating Natasha and Pierre, _greedy_ for refusing to settle on one.

To hell with it, he decided. If this was greed, then temperance was hardly going to solve anything. And it seemed a crime to choose between them, so similar and yet so very different. Hélène may have been dark and Anatole fair, but the self-satisfaction in their smiles were nearly identical. Of course Natasha had been tempted. Of course Pierre had been so stupidly, doggedly infatuated. They were lovely and terrible and irresistible, and Fedya forced the voice in his head into silence and hoped that his face wouldn’t betray his guilt.

“Oh, Tolya, look at those cheeks,” Hélène crooned, cupping his chin. “He’s blushing for us. Isn’t that sweet?”

It was enough, was what it was.

Fedya leaned forwards before Hélène could. Their lips met, more teeth than tongue at first, awkward and sudden and too passionate, but it quickly gave way to practiced ease. He felt her smiling and couldn’t resist kissing the apples of her cheeks and the curve of her jaw.

Hélène growled and pulled him back to her lips.

“Missed this, Lena?” he murmured.

“Christ,” she breathed, in between kisses. One of her hands wandered into his hair. The other found its way to the side of his neck. “More than air.”

Fedya chuckled and nipped at her bottom lip. “C’mere.”

She couldn’t, at least, not without leaving her seat, so she half-stood half-sat, and Fedya had almost risen to his feet when he felt another pair of lips brush against his throat.

Hélène let out a small, frustrated noise. “Don’t stop.”

He did just that.

Anatole let out a delighted yelp as Fedya pulled him into his lap. Hélène sat back in her seat with an irritable huff and crossed her arms.

“Alright, you brat,” he grumbled good-naturedly. “What do you want?”

Anatole chuckled and steadied himself. They pressed close, as if he were trying to mold himself to Fedya’s chest. “You,” he said.

“I beg your pardon,” Hélène said, from across the compartment.

“Needy.”

“I am what I am.”

Fedya’s hands worked hurriedly, impatiently, greedily at the buttons of Anatole’s waistcoat, then the undershirt, and ripped open the collar. Once he had, he almost wished he’d left it buttoned. Winter and weeks on end of no sunlight had left them all sickly and grey, but the faded purple-and-yellow marks that still lingered in the hollows of Anatole’s throat made him look almost skeletal.

Fedya’s hands faltered. Anatole looked at if he were on the verge of cracking a joke. _Too pale for your taste, mon cher?_ Fedya imagined him saying. _I can’t be all that hideous, now, can I?_

But Fedya wasn’t in a talking mood.

Gently, he brushed his lips across Anatole’s collarbone, where the bruising was lightest. Anatole stiffened and sucked in a sharp breath. His eyes grew distant and glassy. His hands tightened on Fedya’s shoulders. But it was over in an instant, just as quickly as it had come.

“Alright?” Fedya whispered.

He felt Anatole relax against him. This was good. This—this was better than good. “Alright.”

Fedya grinned and kissed him again, hard, delighting in the gasp it provoked as he gripped his hips tighter. Anatole gave a content sigh and leaned more of his weight against Fedya, perfectly happy to let him take the lead.

That was the difference between the two of them, Fedya thought. Hélène knew what she wanted, and for Anatole, being wanted was enough.

Hands curled in his hair. “Christ, Fedya, _ne me taquine pas_ —”

Fedya laughed. Hélène did not.

“Do you two mind?” she said sternly.

Anatole drew back, flushed and daft, his arms still slung around Fedya’s shoulders. “Jealous?”

“What’ll you do if someone walks across the aisle?”

“The windows have blinds for a reason.”

Had she been holding a fan, she probably would have snapped it across his shoulder. She settled for the passport instead. “You know what I mean, Anatole.”

Guilt sank into Fedya’s chest again. Wordlessly, he disentangled himself and slid Anatole from his lap to the seat. Anatole looked on in confusion for a moment, but it quickly gave way to hurt, and he folded his legs up onto the bench and tucked his knees beneath his chin, and Danali wriggled into his lap the way she always did when he was upset.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Fedya said.

“I know,” said Hélène. “But you have to.”

“I _know_ that,” he said, a little more sharply than he meant.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re only being practical.”

“I wish we didn’t have to be.”

“Yes, well, we can wish for a lot of things, but it doesn’t mean they’ll come to pass.”

Hélène shook her head despairingly and turned back to Anatole, who for once hadn’t bothered to interject with any of his own comments. “Are you alright, Tolya?”

His smile was as forced as it was unconvincing. “I’m fine. I won’t sulk or complain, I promise. I understand how this works by now.”

A month ago, Fedya would have been relieved to hear that. Celebratory, even. He would’ve ordered a bottle of champagne and the most expensive meal the French Club had to offer, hang the cost, because Anatole the thoughtless had done the impossible and finally managed to have a lesson hammered into his thick skull.

But he didn’t feel anything at all like relief. It felt more like a loss of innocence, if you could’ve ever called Anatole innocent.

“Oh, Tolya,” Fedya sighed.

“There’s nothing wrong,” Anatole said.

Hélène reached for Danali, who was lying perfectly still on Anatole’s knee, but just as soon, drew her hand back and rested it on Dahanian’s head instead.

Well, he supposed, she had been right. Perhaps they had to be realistic now. Perhaps times had changed. Or perhaps it was only themselves who had been changed.

“You can’t have expected me to let you keep him for yourself,” she said, a smirk tugging at her lips.

Fedya raised an eyebrow. He knew what she was doing, but he would have been surprised if Anatole caught on.

And after all, there was nothing Kuragins knew better than how to piss each other off.

“You shouldn’t be greedy, Lena. It’s unseemly.”

This retort was met by a dismissive huff. Hélène reached over to run her fingers through Anatole’s hair and pulled it out of its not-much-of-a-parting. With a squawk, he slapped her hands away and pushed himself to the far end of the bench, holding his carpetbag between her and himself like a shield.

“You’ve ruined it!” he said. “Look what you’ve done to my hair. I spent twenty minutes this morning getting it in order and you’ve gone and ruined it!”

Indignant as he sounded, he wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding his smile or the bubble of laughter in his voice.

“And that’s any different from the way it normally is?” asked Fedya.

“He doesn’t even use pomade properly,” said Hélène. “It just stands upright on its own. It used to drive Papa mental when we were little.”

“Yes, well, it’s going to drive him mental now if I can’t fix it,” Anatole said.

Hélène and Dahanian laughed. “Serves you right, you idiot. After what you did to my skirt.”

Anatole turned to Fedya and asked, “Do you have any pomade? Beard oil? Anything?”

Fedya had, as a matter of fact, brought a tin of beard oil with him, but it was at the very bottom of his suitcase, which was at the very bottom of the luggage heap in the overhead rack, and he couldn’t be bothered to get it out. And he quite liked Anatole’s hair looking like it had just gone through a night at the Club.

“Spit, I hear, does the job fairly well,” he offered.

Hélène laughed again.

“Goddammit,” said Anatole. “You’re useless, you know that? Lena, let me use your compact.”

* * *

 

The rest of the ride passed in relative peace. Hélène curled up on the bench to nap, tucking Dahanian beneath her head as a pillow, and Anatole and Fedya spoke of everything and nothing. They didn’t bother keeping their voices low, knowing Hélène was too heavy a sleeper to hear them.

Eventually, Anatole excused himself for a stroll _to stretch my legs, Fedya, Christ, these seats are torture_. Since they had boarded that morning, his nerves had been ticking down like the gears on a stopwatch, and if he didn’t have a reprieve, he may very well have taken Hélène’s suggestion and jumped out the train window himself, so Fedya let him burn through his worry pacing up and down the length of the carriage while he re-read the papers.

A few hours later they arrived at the Saint Petersburg-Glavny railway station. Fedya folded up his newspaper and tucked it into his carpetbag, Samira stirred from where she had been lying under the bench, and Anatole returned from his fifth excursion.

And then there came the matter of whose responsibility it was to wake Hélène.

“You do it,” Anatole said immediately.

Fedya flattened his face into a scowl. “Who died and left you in charge, Kuragin?”

“She’ll skin me alive.”

“She’ll skin us both alive if we’re late.”

“You won’t have to share a carriage with her.”

“She’s your sister.”

“You’ve slept with her.”

“That doesn’t make me _responsible_ for her, you twit.”

“Better you than me.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

They didn’t get to argue for much longer than that, because the train whistle blasted, a horrible screeching sound, and Hélène shot upright, Dahanian with her, their eyes wide and shocked.

“Christ,” Hélène hissed, one hand over her heart.

“We’re here, Lena,” said Anatole.

“We’d better be,” she snapped. “If you’ve woken me up for nothing, I’ll wring your neck.”

Fedya winced at her poor word choice, and a moment later Hélène gaped in horror. But Anatole only smiled and said, in a wry voice, “You’ll have to get in line. I’m afraid your ex-husband has already beaten you to the punch.”

White in the face, Hélène straightened her skirts and gave an uncertain laugh. “You’re rather quick on your feet today, Tolya,” she said.

“Because we’ve been sitting for too damn long.”

“Alright,” said Fedya. “Enough whining. Let’s be off.”

Limbs aching from the ride, they made their way to the platform. The trains running to Petersburg must have all been full, because the station was packed to the brim with people hurrying to catch coaches. An elbow out too far, a step not taken quickly enough, and they would crash into someone and send a luggage cart hurtling to the ground. Anatole, being the tallest of the three, took the lead as they ploughed into the fray, but he had never been the pushy sort, and soon Hélène had jostled ahead of him.

“I’m dressed for last season,” she said, her voice low and foul. “Look at us, Tolya. We look like something from the past century.”

Anatole startled as a tall, stout man careened into his side and almost knocked him to the floor. He hardly had the build for navigating crowds, Fedya thought. In Hélène, a delicate frame translated itself to _petite_. In Anatole, it was something closer to _flimsy_.

And _easy-to-push-around_ , apparently.

“As I said,” Anatole huffed, struggling to keep pace, “we’re due a visit to the Great Gostiny Dvor.”

“I think you both look fine,” Fedya offered.

“What would you know?” Hélène snapped. “You never wear anything but that goddamn uniform.”

Anatole craned his neck over a passerby’s head to give Fedya a long, appraising look, and turned back to Hélène. “Are you seriously complaining about the uniform?”

But Fedya wasn’t listening anymore. Anatole’s voice had trailed off into the din of the station, mindless and insignificant, and all the sounds and the people around him with it. Samira’s coarse fur bristled against the side of his calf through the fabric of his trousers. Something in the air was crackling like the dying sparks of an anbaric light. Sulphur and dust filled his lungs.

He heard their footsteps before he saw them.

Soldiers. Like a swarm of green-jacketed hornets, they spilled across the platform, and the crowd parted before them to clear a path. Months ago, Fedya has watched as the first regiments shipped out with proud, patriotic dæmons. Borzois, Caucasian shepherds, laikas, Russian spaniels, samoyeds, huskies. There was military blood in those men. A stern determination tempered by the ease of experience.

But now the draft was tightening its fist, pulling on every string it could get its fingers on. These men were tired and nervous. Conscripts, not career soldiers. Fedya was overcome with an awful sense of foreboding that rose in his gut like bile, and he felt Samira tense at his side in displeasure.

“What a display,” Anatole said idly. Danali crawled out of his breast pocket and onto his shoulder to watch as the procession marched by. “They do themselves well, don’t they, Fedya? I quite like the look of those jackets. You ought to get one for yourself. I don’t imagine I’d be able to keep my hands off of you.”

Fedya opened his mouth to retort, but Hélène glanced at the clock and snapped, “Dammit. The train was late.”

“Where d’you suppose they’re headed?” Anatole continued. “I’ve never seen so many adjutants in one place before.”

They weren’t adjutants. They were infantrymen, if the bayonets were anything to go by. But of course, Anatole wouldn’t have thought to make that distinction. Wouldn’t have known enough either.

“Prussia, I suppose,” said Hélène.

“Not Prussia,” Fedya said steadily, his eyes searching the crowd for the commanding general. “Poland.”

Hélène frowned. “Poland?”

“They’re defending the western front. Haven’t you been reading the papers? Napoleon captured Warsaw just last week.”

A few heads turned at that. Fedya scowled and looked the other way, hoping to avoid their eyes.

“I don’t bother with those silly things. They only ever bring bad news,” said Anatole.

Hélène sighed. “I don’t suppose that will change. Our parents think the papers are _déclassé_.”

“Our parents also think that Ippolit is sensible and charming,” he said resentfully. “I wouldn’t put too much weight into their judgement if I were you.”

“Don’t be rude.”

“It’s true. The last time I saw him, he’d put on his cravat backwards and half the buttons were in the wrong—”

There came a deafening blast as the train’s whistle went off again. Anatole ducked and covered his ears. On his shoulder, Danali let out a high-pitched shriek and burrowed into his collar.

“Hellfire,” he hissed, his hands still firmly clamped over his ears. “Are they trying to deafen us?”

“No more of that,” Hélène said sharply. “Papa’s angry enough at you as it is without adding blasphemy.”

Anatole straightened his collar and said something blasphemous-sounding under his breath.

“Which way are we headed now?” asked Fedya, eager to distract them.

“I suppose we ought to find a carriage,” Hélène said.

“Lead the way, then.”

Off they went. The station was just as opulent from the inside as any of the Moscow opera houses. Overwhelmed by its vastness and crowd, Fedya craned his neck to the ceiling, where a frescoed city skyline sprawled to each corner and four chandeliers were arranged in a square framed by a tessellation of quatrefoils. Samira’s claws clicked against the marble tiling as they bustled to the doorways, luggage in tow—Fedya carrying his own things, Hélène having engaged a porter for her and Anatole.

Out front, the streets were lined with carriages and departing travelers, dripping in fur and silk and gems. For once, Hélène and Anatole seemed underdressed. God only knew what Fedya must have looked like in comparison.

His gaze fixed on a tall blonde woman, pale and slim, a Siberian crane for a dæmon, her coat pinned with an enormous emerald brooch and diamonds dangling from her ears like two twinkling stars. They were probably worth more money than he had ever possessed in his life. But across the street, distant but not invisible from their vantage point, was a haggard man of middle age walking on crutches, a stout mastiff at his side, his coat too-worn from the winter and the end of his trouser leg tied off in a knot below the stump of his knee.

Fedya’s feet stopped moving. An old war injury, perhaps. Or new—you never could tell these days. There was no way of knowing, because a moment later, Fedya blinked, and both the blonde woman and her crane and the one-legged man and his mastiff had disappeared in the crowd, and Hélène and Anatole hadn’t noticed a damn thing.

“This is it, I suppose,” said Hélène.

Fedya turned his head towards her and Anatole. A carriage had stopped at the curb, and the coachman held the door open expectantly. He realized that they now would be expected to part ways. His heart dipped. Three weeks in that goddamned house. Three weeks of hardly seeing them, a miserable train ride, and now he would have to say goodbye again.

“I suppose it is,” he said tightly.

Hélène pressed something into his hand. A slip of paper, twice folded and tied with a ribbon.

“You’ll know where to find us,” she said. “Write me once you find a place to stay. Or visit. Whichever is quicker.”

“Of course.”

“Come around the back. There’s a gate that leads to the garden. They never leave it locked.”

Anatole gave a wicked smile and leaned in close. “My room is the one overlooking the courtyard on the second floor. I’ll put a light in the window this evening.” And then, with a suggestive tilt to his eyebrow: “There’s a trellis that runs along the wall. It ought to be enough to support a man’s weight.”

Fedya gave Samira a quick look. “Wolves can’t climb up walls, you know.”

At this, he seemed genuinely stumped. “You couldn’t just carry her?”

“ _Que Dieu nous aide_ ,” said Hélène, looking skywards. “We can’t all have little rodents for dæmons like you.”

“She’s a mustelid, not a rodent.”

“Go and get ready, would you?”

Anatole gave a huff and went to help the porter with their luggage. Hélène turned to Fedya and said, “I won’t keep you any longer. You don’t have to wait with us. We’ll figure something out. Perhaps I’ll meet you in the garden.”

Fedya bent at the waist and kissed her hand. “I’d like that very much.”

“So would I.”

“ _Allons-y_ , Lena,” Anatole said, striding back to the curb. “The gentleman is requesting a tip. I think he’s about to get impatient.”

“Alright, alright. We’ll see you soon,” said Hélène apologetically.

Anatole reached over and clapped Fedya on the back. “Best of luck, old friend. If you’re having trouble finding a place to stay, head to the Haymarket on Sadovaya and Moskovsky and tell them Prince Kuragin sent you. And keep an eye on your pockets.”

Fedya cuffed Anatole playfully. “As if I’m going to tarnish my reputation before I even build it.”

“You? A reputation?” Hélène scoffed. “What would you know of something like that?”

“I’m Dolokhov the assassin.”

“In the army, perhaps,” Anatole said. “But this is Petersburg, _mon cher_. The only assassin here is Madame Scherer.”

And with that, he and Hélène boarded the waiting carriage and swung the door shut behind them. Then the coachman cracked the whip, and the they took off down Ligovsky Avenue and veered into the roundabout.

Fedya unfolded the paper as soon as they were out of sight. There was a note, inked in Hélène’s neat cursive:

 _828 Nevsky Ave._ _On va se voir bientôt._

Beneath that was a lipstick kiss, freshly red and still sticky. Fedya’s face grew hot.

“At least she’s straightforward,” said Samira.

“Oh, hush, you.”

When he opened the paper fully, out fell a fistful of 50-ruble notes.

Samira huffed. “Aristocrats.”

“They mean well,” Fedya sighed, stuffing the note and the money into his breast pocket. “You can’t deny that.”

“ _You_ can’t, maybe.”

“Right,” he said, hitching his carpetbag a little higher on his shoulder, “let’s be off. Have to find a place to stay the night. It won’t stay light out much longer.”


	16. Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunions take place, some more pleasant than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! hopefully this long chapter will make up for it!
> 
> Our next post date is a little up in the air, because @thewhiskerydragon is moving into college on Friday (she's going to a literal ivy league because she's a genius/ it's totally acceptable and encouraged to tease her about what a smartie she is)! Hopefully it won't affect things too much, but it's a possibility!
> 
> Also a few chapter-specific notes:
> 
> 1) There are only a few reasons you can get divorced in the Orthodox church, and if anyone has any guesses about what Helene and Pierre cited as their reason, we'd love to hear them!
> 
> 2) This chapter has a lot of stereotypes about Russian moms, but I'm Slavic, so it's fine (MaplePaizley)

The last time Hélène had laid eyes on Kuragin Manor, she had been a young bride preparing to leave for Moscow. Then, as she had watched Nevsky Avenue disappear from the backseat window of the carriage, she had resolved to never speak to her parents again. And she hadn’t, at least, until a year later when a frantic letter from Aline had arrived, bringing with it news of Anatole’s expulsion from Petersburg.

Everyone knew how well that had ended.

And yet here they were again. Kuragin Manor rose before them like a mountain of granite and glass, something unsettlingly animated, a sleeping lion with marble pillars for teeth and French windows for eyes. Though the bitter cold of March had already melted into spring, Anatole drew his arms around himself as if freezing and drifted over to stand at Hélène’s side as the porters began taking in their luggage.

“My legs are dead, Lena,” he said, kneading his knuckles against his thighs. “My calves, my knees, my arse—”

“Tolya,” she said lightly.

“It’s those goddamned seats.”

“I think you just enjoy complaining.”

However true that may have been, he couldn’t seem to stop fidgeting, and Danali kept scurrying back and forth along his shoulders as if she couldn’t decide which side to stay on. Two frantic rabbits caught in a trap, and she was about to bring them into a house of wolves.

“Are you nervous?” she asked.

Anatole gave a quick, brittle laugh. “Nervous? Me? Hardly.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m only trying to get my blood flowing again. After how long we’ve been cooped up.”

Dahanian let out a little huff of disbelief.

“It’ll be alright, Lena,” he continued. “We’ve nothing to be nervous about.”

It struck Hélène as a little odd that out of the two of them it was him reassuring her. After all, she wasn’t the one who had been warned in no uncertain terms never to show his face in Petersburg again.

She reached over and squeezed his hand, three quick pulses. “I know.”

“I doubt we could disappoint them any more than we already have.” He opened his arms and gestured grandly to the manor before them. “And yet, here we are. Forgiving people, aren’t they? You and I could probably stand to learn a lesson or two from them. I wonder if this is the sort of thing they teach you in Church.”

“None of that language. Not while they’re within earshot.”

Anatole stuffed his hands into his armpits. “I’ll try. Don’t expect any miracles.”

Hélène patted him between the shoulders. “Thank you.”

“ _De rien_.”

At last, the two of them started up the front steps, where the butler, a stout, dark-haired man with a stout, dark-haired hound for a dæmon, greeted them at the door.

“Prince Anatole,” he said politely.

Anatole flashed him a charming grin, and with that, his nerves seemed to disappear.

At least, unless you knew him.

The butler turned to Hélène and paused, his mouth halfway open. “Er…madame?”

“My title, if you would,” Hélène snapped.

The silence stretched on a beat too long.

“Princess?” he offered.

“There you go,” Hélène said coldly. Then, to Anatole: “What do you know? He remembers me after all.”

Anatole leaned over with a game smile and clapped the butler between the shoulders. “Forgive her, my good man. We’ve had a long journey.”

Thoroughly abashed, the butler nodded, stepped to the side, and said, “The Prince and Princess are prepared to receive you in the parlor. If you will.”

Hélène laced her fingers through Anatole’s. She realized that his hand was shaking, or perhaps it was hers and she couldn’t tell the difference. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Together, they started off down the corridor, down a tunnel of green-satin wallpaper and mirrors. Anatole’s feet froze halfway to the parlor door.

“I don’t want to go in first,” he said suddenly.

Hélène stopped, still holding his hand, and turned to him. “Tolya?”

“I’ll be fine. But I don’t want to go in first.”

“Implying that I do.”

“Please, Lena.”

Hélène frowned, taking in the sudden anxiety that had come over his face, the way his fingers were spasmodically clenching and unclenching, and how tightly Danali had curled herself around his throat. Few things in the world could drive Anatole to panic quite as easily as the prospect of speaking to Vasily Kuragin. She had seen it before. She didn’t want to have to see it again.

“Alright,” she sighed. “I’ll tell them you’re fixing your hair. Come in when you’re ready.”

His hand relaxed and slipped out of her grip. “Thank you.”

“If Mama eviscerates me, it’s your fault.”

The nervous tilt of his mouth cracked into a smirk. “Tell her you lit candles for her in Church every Sunday and you’re golden. And if Papa has me thrown in prison, you owe me a visit and a bottle of champagne.”

“You know he just likes the sound of his own voice. If you agree with everything he says and look contrite, he won’t bother you.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever tried that trick before.”

“Then perhaps you ought to give it a shot.”

Anatole nodded, still smiling, and folded his hands behind his back. “Perhaps.”

Hélène started back down the hall, on her own this time, counting her footsteps as she went.

“They’ve been redecorating, I think,” she heard him say to Danali. “I quite like the look of those drapes. Do you suppose they’re silk?”

Whatever Danali had to say in response to that, if anything, Hélène never got to hear it, because she had already pushed the door open. A draft of sweet-scented perfume greeted her as crossed the threshold.

If Vasily and Aline had been ready to greet them, they must have been taking their sweet time to arrive. Save for herself and Dahanian, the room was entirely empty. Hélène swept her eyes across the mahogany floors and velvet-upholstered seats and Persian carpets. The chandelier was new, as was the enormous crystal girandole on what once was the chess table, but the gist of it had remained untouched.

Most striking of all were the three oil paintings that still hung above the fireplace, framed in gold-leaf. A portrait of a fifteen-year-old Ippolit glowered at her with Ilaria, then newly settled as an ocelot, curled in his arms. In the second, fourteen-year-old Hélène sat on the parlor chaise, Dahanian at her feet, and painted in the window above their heads was the first snowfall of winter. Anatole aged twelve stood, his hair combed down into a neatness he hadn’t worn in years, with a charming smile that the painter must have forgotten to leave out and Danali standing proudly at his shoulder.

“Titch,” Dahanian said softly.

Hélène smiled and stroked his head. “Do you remember when Danali settled? Properly, I mean. Not the first time.”

“You told Anatole that she looked like a rat.”

Hélène laughed. Of all the cruel remarks she had ever uttered, it was hardly among the worst, but Anatole had immediately dissolved into tears and run straight to Aline.

Looking back, it seemed pathetic and completely ridiculous, even more so when she had made the mistake of telling the story to Fedya, who hadn’t been able to contain his laughter for a full thirty minutes afterwards. And Anatole, even twelve years later, still had yet to let go of that particular grudge.

She was startled out of her memories when the door on the other end of the room opened and Aline Kuragina rushed in.

Hélène gasped as she was engulfed in a tight embrace that smelled of lilies and bergamot. Her arms hung limp at her sides. Finally, Aline pulled away and kissed her cheek. “ _Bonjour_ , Elena.”

Hélène forced a smile and returned the gesture. “ _Bonjour_ , maman,” she said, pointedly neglecting to tack on an _I missed you_.

Aline’s face had hardly changed at all. She still wore her hair curled and pinned with a large pearl brooch, though the pale blonde was starting to give way to silver at the temples. The skin around her eyes had begun to wrinkle with age, but the eyes themselves hadn’t lost their startling blue. And her dæmon Galian, a long white mink, was still curled around her neck in the same way Danali always clung to Anatole.

“You look just as lovely as you did when we sent you off,” she said.

“Thank you, Ma—”

“But velvet in March, darling?” Aline shook her head. “Well, I suppose it’s no worry. We’ll pay a visit to the Great Gostiny Dvor and have that all sorted out soon enough.”

Hélène flushed. “I thought it would be suitable for travel.”

“And what is this on your skirt?”

Her hand moved instinctively to cover the powder stain. “It wasn’t my fault. Anatole got bored on the train and decided to—”

She never did get to finish her explanation, because Aline caught sight of Anatole stepping through the door and quite literally pushed Hélène aside in her haste to reach him.

“Tolenka?” she gasped. “Is that you?”

At the sound of Aline’s voice, Danali’s head shot up. Anatole laughed as she threw her arms around him and crushed him to her chest. “ _Bonjour_ , Mama.”

“Oh, my little boy,” she said, now in Russian. “I’ve missed you so much, _moyo solnyshko_.”

“I missed you too, Mama.”

“It’s been far too long. You’ve no idea how quiet and lonely it’s been without you. Why didn’t you ever write me? Do you know how worried I was for you?”

Ten years ago, Hélène may have been jealous of Anatole, and she may have even envied the affection that Aline rained down on him and never her or Ippolit, but the older she grew, the more grateful she was to be left alone.

It was times like now that she was pointedly reminded of this.

“You look far too slim,” Aline scolded, without waiting for his response to her questions. “One would think your sister didn’t feed you.”

Anatole shot Hélène a quick apologetic glance.

Aline frowned. “And what are these?”

“Pardon?” said Anatole.

“ _These_ ,” she said, tugging at the collar of his shirt, which he had turned up to hide the bruises. Her eyes widened in horror. “Anatole Vasilyevich, did a _woman_ give you those marks?”

Hélène pressed her hands to her mouth to keep herself from laughing. As far as Aline concerned, Anatole had stopped aging on his third birthday, and anything after that, she had remained willfully, blissfully ignorant of. If she knew half of what he had gotten up to at home, never mind his exploits in Moscow, she may very well have collapsed on the spot. She looked close to it now, if the pallor of her face was anything to go by.

Anatole groaned and stared at the ceiling. “Really, Mama, I—”

“What an awful harlot!” Aline gasped. “What were you thinking, involving yourself with a woman like that? You know what they’re after, Tolenka.”

Anatole seemed to realize that arguing against her was pointless. All things considered, it was a more favorable admission than the truth.

“It was a mistake,” he said.

“Evidently! Please tell me you didn’t consummate your affair.”

Anatole’s cheeks flushed scarlet. Hélène’s shoulders jumped with a muffled snort.

“No, I didn’t, Mama,” he said stiffly.

Aline shook her head in despair. “It’s just as well we’re headed to Church on Sunday. You can go to confession and ask for absolution.”

At that, Hélène almost doubled over with laughter. A confession of Anatole’s sins would have stretched into the next week, and that was assuming he remembered any of the rites and prayers, which was doubtful. He probably hadn’t set foot in a church since leaving Petersburg.

Anatole glared at her over Aline’s shoulder and stuck out his tongue.

“Elena? My goodness, is that you?”

Hélène whipped around when she heard the familiar voice, ignoring the cold thrill of trepidation that shot through her.

There stood Vasily, tall, barrel-chested, black-eyed, dark-haired, though his goatee was mostly silver by now. His dæmon Asteria was a lioness with keen yellow eyes. Standing before her, Dahanian looked pathetically small, like one of the stray cats she used to see wandering the gutters of Moscow.

Vasily smiled. “ _Bonjour_ , dearest. We’ve missed you.”

“Papa. It’s so lovely to see you,” she said, responding in French.

“So formal, _chérie_. Let me have a look at you.”

Hélène stepped into his arms to embrace him. He smelled of lemongrass and pipe smoke and ink, the way he always did after he had spent any time in his study. She pictured him sitting at his bureau, a great towering structure of mahogany and papers that stood beneath the window. He had probably been waiting there all day.

“You look well,” he said approvingly, holding her at arm’s length. “Moscow has suited you, I see.”

“Thank you, Papa.”

“And thank you for taking your brother in. I’m sure it mustn't have been easy.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Anatole rapidly buttoning up his collar. It must have been that, that little moment of panic, that quick distraction, that caused her to forget who she was speaking to and accidentally slip back into Russian.

“It was nothing,” she said. “He was a wonderful guest.”

Vasily frowned and pulled away. “Why are you speaking in Russian?”

“Oh!” she said, hurriedly switching to French. “My mistake. I didn’t mean to.”

“There’s something wrong with your accent as well.”

Hélène sighed. Better to bite the proverbial bullet and get this over with, especially if he’d already noticed mistakes.

Her eyes dipped to the floor. “I must’ve fallen out of practice.”

Vasily sighed heavily. “How did this happen, Elena?”

“I’m sorry, Papa. It’s not easy readjusting. Pierre never did manage to pick up French. I’ve barely used it since we married.”

“It shows. You sound uneducated,” he said in Russian.

Hélène winced. Russian sounded in Vasily’s mouth the way an ill-fitting pair of shoes felt. Functional, but less than comfortable. She hated it instantly. Russian was for children, not countesses and princesses. Every word, every syllable stung like an insult.

“I can _understand_ French, Papa.”

“But can you speak it?”

“ _Oui_ ,” she said hurriedly, and continued in rapid-fire French, “I can speak it perfectly well. I only need to practice.”

Vasily shook his head and pressed on in Russian, “That’s alright. We’ll find you a tutor, _mon ange_. No need to worry. We’ll just use Russian for the interim.”

Hélène’s cheeks burned scarlet. Anatole let out a quiet snicker.

Not quiet enough, evidently. Vasily’s head turned in his direction, the snap of a hunter locking eyes with its prey, and Anatole’s face dropped like a lead weight.

“ _Bonjour,_ Papa,” he said, more swallowing than enunciating it.

Hélène remembered a time when Anatole had hardly come up to Vasily’s hip. Anatole may have been at his eye-level now, but he had inherited Aline’s slight frame. _Girlish_ , Vasily used to call it. _Disappointing_. Standing together, they looked like a horrendously mismatched David and Goliath.

“Anatole,” Vasily said coolly. “Such a surprise to see you back in the city.”

A surprise. Who did he think he was fooling? It had been exactly three weeks since Hélène had written him to inform him of the move, and for two weeks and six days, she had worked herself into a panicked frenzy wondering what his response would be. The only surprise was that he hadn’t already sent for the General Polizeimeister to have Anatole hauled away from the premises.

“A _lovely_ surprise,” Aline said, and swept in to kiss Anatole’s cheek.

“Moscow wasn’t to your liking?” asked Vasily.

“I wanted him to come here with me,” Hélène said quickly. “He’s been such a help. I couldn’t leave him behind without—”

“I asked your brother, Elena, not you.”

Hélène closed her mouth. Dahanian shrank back against her skirt.

“It was alright,” Anatole said. “A little dull, to be honest.”

Vasily crossed his arms. Asteria tipped her head at an odd angle as if she were trying to catch Danali’s eye. “Dull?”

Anatole swallowed thickly, afraid of having misspoken. He had every right to be afraid. Anything could become a misstep with Vasily if it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

“It…it was nice, mostly,” he said. “The weather was nice. The—”

“You just said that it was dull.”

“Well, I mean, really, I suppose it was alright.” His eyes darted to Hélène. “And it was nice to see Lena again.”

“You’re mumbling again,” Vasily said, drumming his fingers against his thigh. Asteria’s lips curled back to reveal her teeth. “What have I told you? If you speak too quickly, no one will ever understand you.”

“I didn’t mean to,” said Anatole.

“Oh, leave him alone,” Aline said. “You’re making the poor thing nervous.”

“I would be a bad father if I didn’t tell him these things. How will anyone take him seriously if he can’t hold a basic conversation?”

“At least I can speak in French,” Anatole muttered

Vasily’s eyes flashed, hard and cold. Hélène decided that it was time to cut in.

“It’s so wonderful to be home again,” she said. “I missed Petersburg.”

“Perhaps you ought to have visited,” Aline said coolly.

Asteria snapped at Galian, who chittered anxiously and ducked behind Aline’s hair.

“Don’t be so rude, Lina,” said Vasily. “I’m sure the train ride was quite arduous. Isn’t that right, _mon cœur_?”

“God, the seats were horrendous,” Anatole interrupted. He laughed, more out of nerves than amusement, which was the exact opposite of what they needed right now. And then, clearly without thinking of his audience: “We suffered like Christ on the cross.”

His face dropped as he realized what he had just said.

Aline gasped. “Anatole!”

Hélène froze in her seat, waiting for the inevitable slap, the open palm across his face, or worse, the closed fist. But it never did come.

Vasily’s face remained coldly, terrifyingly blank, almost as if he was looking straight through Anatole. The silence that followed was agonizing.

Aline patted Anatole’s shoulder in a weary, feeble sort of way and said, in a voice that was equally weary and feeble, “I suppose it’s a good thing we’re all headed to Church.”

Anatole swallowed. “I suppose so.”

“Papa, do you know what we’re having for dinner?” Hélène cut in quickly. “I’m absolutely famished. I've hardly eaten all day.”

“The cooks are preparing nalesniki this evening, darling. I know it’s your favorite.”

Hélène intertwined her fingers with Vasily’s and leaned her head against his shoulder. At their feet, Asteria brushed up against Dahanian. Hélène’s shoulders squirmed in empathy as she felt something heavy and demanding pressing down on her. It wasn’t a painful sensation, but an irritating one nonetheless, one that she had hoped to have left behind in her childhood.

“Thank you, Papa,” she said.

Vasily chuckled as he followed her gaze. “Danochka hasn’t changed a bit,” he said.

“No, I don’t suppose he has.”

“You were always such an independent child. Very strong-willed. Truly your father’s daughter, eh?”

Hélène gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I should like to think so.”

Vasily returned the smile as he gestured to her pearls, the ones he had given her three years ago in celebration of her engagement to Pierre. “Still wearing these?”

“Of course. I wear them every day if I can.”

“It’s nice to see you haven’t forgotten yourself in Moscow, even if you’ve forgotten your French. Still a Piter girl through and through.”

Dahanian’s tail flicked, and he stretched around to hold its tufted end in his mouth like a chew-toy. Hélène remembered a second too late that this was another habit Vasily detested.

“Thank you, Papa.”

“You’ve made quite a name for yourself as a hostess. We’ve received nothing but compliments about you,” Vasily said.

“I heard your latest soirée was quite a success,” Aline chimed in, settling onto the chaise.

Three years, Hélène mused, may have been a long time, but evidently it was not long enough for Aline to learn not to inject herself into every conversation within her immediate vicinity.

“Now, darling, we do understand how embarrassing this situation must be for you—”

“But you really ought to have told us about your marital difficulties sooner, Elena,” Vasily interrupted. “People have been talking, you know.”

Of course, she knew. You would’ve had to have been deaf not to have heard the rumors floating around. But acknowledging their existence would have been halfway to an outright confession, so Hélène elected to feign innocence instead.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” she said.

Aline clucked impatiently. “Anna Pavlovna wrote us a few months back while she was visiting Moscow. She said that you were accompanied to the opera by an unmarried man. Do you suppose that had something to do with the rumors?”

Hélène flushed and tangled her fingers in Dahanian’s fur. “You know what a gossip Anna Pavlovna is.”

“That seems like an odd thing for her to fabricate,” Aline said sweetly. “I’m sure I don’t know why she would make something like that up.”

“Captain Dolokhov offered to escort me because Pierre was feeling ill that evening. There was nothing scandalous about it, no matter how she made it sound.”

Vasily sighed. “You know how appearances matter, Elena. That was a foolish decision.”

“I thought it would be rude to forgo attending all together and worse still to be unaccompanied. Captain Dolokhov was a perfectly respectable escort.”

Aline sighed. “I expect the rumors will only worsen now. Now that everyone knows about Pierre’s… _condition_.”

Just then, Anatole, who had been silent until now, snorted and hastily disguised it as a cough. Hélène resisted the urge to snatch a vase off the side table and throw it at his head.

“You were too good for him, darling,” Aline said, oblivious as always. “It’s not right, a social young lady like you shackled down to such a hermit. I don’t imagine his reputation will ever recover from this, and the man was an oddball to begin with.”

Hélène straightened her back and in the most dignified tone possible, said, “I agree.”

“He can comfort himself with his inheritance,” said Vasily. “God knows it’s substantial enough.”

“One would almost think it was in compensation for something,” Aline said to Galian out of the corner of her mouth.

“Well, we know that _now_.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have forced me to marry him,” Hélène said, enunciating each word like it was an insult.

Anatole’s head shot up in panic.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my dear,” Vasily said slowly.

Anatole shot to his feet. “May I please be excused?”

“Sit down,” Vasily said, without taking his eyes off of Hélène.

Anatole slid back onto the chaise. Aline reached over and squeezed his hand.

“Were you comfortable, Elena? Would you say that you’ve enjoyed a high standard of living?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And did your husband beat you?”

“No.”

“And did he allow your brother to stay under his roof when you asked him?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t want to hear another word of complaint about Pierre. Do I make myself understood?”

Hélène shrank in on herself. Slowly, she nodded.

Vasily sighed. “We’ll have to act quickly. Before anyone can consider it for too long.”

“‘Act quickly’?”

“Honestly, Elena, what did you think would happen when you got divorced? It’s not proper for a woman your age to be without a husband.”

Hélène felt her breath freeze in her lungs. “You want me to marry again?”

“You’ll have to, if we want to stay ahead of the gossip. Don’t look so miserable. Do you think your mother and I would be doing this if it weren’t for your own good?”

A petulant _yes_ almost slipped out before she put a hold on her tongue. She caught Anatole’s eye from across the room, and they shared a brief look of mutual understanding. Kuragins never did anything but for their own personal gain. There was no reason for this to have changed.

“And you certainly won’t lack for options,” Vasily continued. “Sergei Lavrov was already inquiring after you.”

“He’s been very lonely since dear Katrina passed,” Aline chimed in. “It’s dreadful being without a spouse.”

Now, there was a name that rang a bell. Katrina Lavrova, frail and sickly, not much older than Hélène, but eternally bed-bound with every conceivable ailment under the sun. Distantly, she remembered seeing her husband, though the memory was foggy at best and there wasn’t a face she could attach to his name. Much like, she remembered as an uncomfortable prickling sensation ran over her skin, her first introduction to Pierre.

That would not do. Not at all.

“I know nothing about him,” she said flatly.

“We’re hosting a soirée next week. You can make his acquaintance then.”

“I don’t want to.”

Vasily sighed irritably. “Don’t be intransigent, Elena. We’re only trying to help you.”

“He’s a lovely man, darling,” said Aline. “Much more sociable than Pierre. Very handsome too.”

Hélène knew in that instant that if she had to sit through this for another minute, she would either start to throw things, or Dahanian might just lunge for Galian and Asteria. She didn’t have the heart for this. Not now. Not after Pierre.

“How considerate of you,” she said blandly.

Aline accepted the not-compliment without a second’s hesitation. But Vasily must have caught the petulance in her voice, and Anatole had too, if the irritated face he pulled was anything to go by. A sliver of pride rose in Hélène’s chest. Anatole had never needed to care for his reputation in the bars and taverns he frequented, had never been accountable for his whims and screw-ups. Kuragin Manor was possibly the only place in the world where she was cut an inch more slack than he was.

“Do you have an opinion you’d like to express, Anatole?” said Vasily.

Anatole’s eyes widened. “No, sir.”

Hélène took her opportunity without hesitation. “May I be excused? I’m rather tired from the journey.”

“Of course, dear,” Vasily said distractedly. “Go and get some rest. We’ll call you down when supper’s ready.”

“It’s lovely to have you back,” Aline added. “We’ll discuss this further at a later time.”

Hélène forced herself to smile. “Thank you. If you need me, I’ll be in my room.”

Dahanian joined her as she rose from her seat and swept out of the parlor. As soon as they were out of Aline and Vasily’s line of sight, he pressed up against her legs. She could feel him trembling.

“May I be excused as well?” came Anatole’s nervous voice.

“Sit down, young man,” she heard Vasily say. “We’re not done with you.”

* * *

 

It was unusual and a bit unnerving, Pierre thought, having the house to himself again.

He had spent a good majority of the past three years avoiding any and all interaction with Hélène, but her presence had reached him in the sounds and sensations she and Anatole and Dolokhov had filled the halls with. The click of heels against floorboards. The creak of a cork being wrenched from the mouth of a bottle, the whiff of champagne and wine. Footsteps—feline, canine, and those almost too small to be heard. The scent of Hélène’s perfume drifting in from the parlor. Laughter, hers and Anatole’s, ringing and crystalline. The heat and crackle of the fire only Dolokhov could have been bothered to light.

That was all gone. Now that he wasn’t confined to his study, the empty house suddenly seemed far more intimidating than it had before, too large for himself and Khione.

Hélène, Anatole, and Dolokhov had left in the early morning. On their way out, he had stopped for a moment to wish them a clumsy farewell, but Hélène had ignored him and instead loudly reminded Anatole and Dolokhov that they would miss their train if they didn’t head off soon.

If that was the be the last time he would ever see his former wife, former brother-in-law, and former-whatever-Dolokhov-had-been, well, he supposed, there were worse ways to end things. And now he was alone, but in an entirely different way to before, and he still didn’t know how to feel about that.

“You can’t possibly miss her,” Khione said.

“I’m not sure,” he said pensively. “I think I do.”

Which was probably why he had written Marya Dmitrievna asking for her company. Without something—or someone—to keep him occupied, he may very well have gone for the Club again, and he knew that there was nothing in Khione’s conscience that would have kept her from letting him have at it.

Khione sighed. “You should straighten your cravat. She’ll be here any minute.”

Knowing Marya’s insistence on punctuality and Pierre’s difficulty with that sort of thing, it was sensible and timely advice. He rushed off to the bathroom to fix his clothes and hunt for a comb to run through his hair, which, as Marya had remarked at their last meeting, needed a trim.

At exactly five o’clock in the afternoon, he heard three loud knocks at the door, and hurried to answer it before the knocker could get in another round.

In another life, Pierre thought, Marya would have made a fine king. Today she was dressed head-to-toe in brocade and a shade of burgundy that clashed hideously with her hair. On any other person, it would have looked ridiculous, but with the same inexplicable serendipity that seemed to follow her everywhere, it was more charming than absurd.

Standing slightly off to the side and slightly behind her was Natasha. As if in lieu of a full mourning gown, she had tied her dark hair with a black satin ribbon, which was only a shade darker than the hair itself. Adrastos was white as snow at her shoulder. Pierre was reminded of the ebony and ivory keys of the piano in the upstairs drawing room that he had played exactly twice in his life.

“Pierre, old friend,” Marya said. “Your tie is crooked.”

Pierre smiled and stepped aside to let her into the front hall. It must have been drizzling outside, because when Salman ruffled his feathers, it shook a burst of droplets onto the floor. Pierre frowned as the damp footprints that they trailed across the carpets and was grateful for once to have guests whose dæmons didn’t have an extra pair of feet to drag in mud and rain.

“I thought I’d bring Natalya round this time,” Marya continued. “She’s still finding her way about Moscow, after all.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Countess Rostova,” he said.

“Hello, Pierre,” Natasha said with a sweet smile.

Marya hung her shawl on the coat rack and pressed a sticky, lemon-scented kiss to his cheek. “Now, tell me, how are you holding up?”

“Well enough, and yourself?”

“I’m managing,” she clucked. Then her hand was on his forearm, cold but firm. “Come. Let me make you a bracing cup of tea. That ought to lift your spirits, shouldn’t it?”

Natasha smiled impishly as Marya bustled off down the hall. She didn’t bother to take off her shawl, but it was clear from the way she loosened and lowered it that she wasn’t cold either.

“You’d best be careful, Pierre,” she said. “She puts enough rum in her tea to knock down a horse.”

Pierre smiled. “I know. I’ve been suffering through it since I first came to Moscow.”

“At least you know what you’re getting into.”

“She’s a good woman, rum and all.”

“She is,” said Natasha. “I’m very lucky to have her as my godmother.”

She began to play with the hem of her shawl, a beautiful maroon length of silk embroidered with wildflowers. Almost against his will, Pierre thought of the one he had bought for Hélène in December.

“She’s really helped me over the last few weeks,” he said. “She’s always been good to me in times of need.”

Natasha’s eyes were dark and weary. “How are you _really_ doing, Pierre?”

He sighed. “It’s complicated, Natasha. I honestly don’t—”

Marya burst back into the hall in a flurry of feathers and burgundy. “I finally managed to find the tea,” she said proudly. “And I’ve brought some treats from home, of course. Now come quickly before it gets cold.”

With the samovar boiling, she ushered them into the parlor—not even her house and she was still ordering people around—and had them sit by the window while she poured them each a cup and then topped it off with a bottle of Pierre’s rum. Then, like the most efficient maid in all of Russia, she set out a tray of lemon-crème biscuits and a small pitcher of milk for the tea.

“Pierre, darling, your house is in shambles,” she said bluntly.

Pierre blushed and ducked his head. It was true—already, a fine layer of dust had settled over the furniture, and empty wine bottles littered almost every available surface as if the wreckage of his study had finally begun to encroach on the rest of the house. Dimly, he remembered that it had been days—no, weeks—since he had last set foot in the kitchen. God only knew what Marya had seen in there. Hélène and Anatole could have turned it into an opium den and he would’ve been none the wiser.

“You ought to fire your staff if this is what they deem an acceptable standard of living,” she continued.

“Hélène had them all dismissed before she left.”

Marya tutted and took a sip of tea. “Well, we’ll have to rectify that, won’t we?”

“I’ll make do Marya, honestly. I’ve never liked having a full staff anyway.”

Marya scoffed. “You married into the wrong family in that case, dear friend. God strike me down for even suggesting it, but you’re probably better off without it.”

 _It_ , he supposed, meaning his marriage.

Pierre resisted the urge to cringe. He still had yet to decide whether his divorce had been the best or the worst day of his life, a question which had driven him to spend a few too many sleepless nights at the French Club, and he had only stopped his drinking for fear of showing up for tea at Marya’s inebriated. He supposed he should have been relieved she hadn’t blacklisted him for something as irreverent as divorce.

“Her and that brother of hers,” Marya continued. She took a biscuit from the tray and fed it to Salman. “At least she had the decency to attend Mass. But him? Two years he’s lived here and not once have I seen him in Church. And he’s worse than her, the way he flouted about. I say good riddance to the both of them. Let them take their sacrilege back to Petersburg. We don’t need it here.”

Natasha stared down at the cup in her hands. “Pierre hasn’t been to Church either, Marya,” she said quietly.

Salman’s head snapped in their direction. Marya’s teacup paused midway to her lips.

“Is that true, Pyotr?”

“I’ve been studying the Bible, though,” he said.

 _Among other things_ , supplied the traitorous voice in his head.

Marya tutted again and went on for a few seconds too long. “That’s not good. Not good at all.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does. Think of your reputation! You finally have the chance for a fresh start. I’m sure there are plenty of young ladies who would be happy to see you at Mass.”

“I’m not going to be married again anyhow,” Pierre said, a little more abruptly than he intended. “Maybe I can finally enjoy my hermitage in peace now that my reputation is thoroughly in the gutter.”

Marya pressed her lips into a thin line.

“You don’t know that, Pierre,” said Natasha.

“Who would want me? I could hardly show my face at the opera, never mind Church. You know what they say about me already. What’ll they think, now that I’ve proven them right?”

“You should call on St. Hypatius and St. Panteleimon to be healed,” said Marya. “I used to know a fellow who suffered as you do. Lost his wife and his reputation all at once. But he prayed to their relics at the Cathedral of Vasily the Blessed and he was cured.”

Pierre suppressed a heavy sigh. He really should have anticipated this, he thought sourly. It was probably half the reason Hélène had been so insistent on the specifics of their agreement. Accepting her terms had been cowardly and pitiful of him, but there had been more than his reputation to lose, and he wouldn’t have put it past Hélène to throw herself over if it meant bringing him down with her.

It was the lesser of two evils, really. This, versus the taboo. Only a fool would have struggled to decide.

“I don’t need to be ‘cured’ of anything,” he said.

“Pierre, I understand how difficult it is, but there’s no shame in—”

“There’s nothing wrong with me!” he spat.

Marya frowned and set her teacup aside. “So it’s not true, then?”

“Of course it’s not true.”

“Pyotr Kirillovich, don’t you dare tell me you’ve perjured yourself to get an illegitimate divorce.”

He sighed. “I wished to spare Hélène’s reputation. The divorce was legitimate. But not for the reason we gave.”

Marya sat back in bewilderment. Natasha looked more embarrassed than confused.

 _There_ , he thought bitterly. _Let her make of that what she will._

Whatever conclusion she drew, she was quick about it. “You’re too generous, old friend. You should’ve taken her to the Magistrate and let them do the honorable thing.”

“There’s no honor in ruining a life,” he said.

“She damn near ruined yours.”

“It doesn’t matter, Marya,” Natasha said quietly. “The past is the past.”

“It’s over and done with, anyhow,” said Pierre. “She’s probably already back in Petersburg.”

The angle of Marya’s eyebrow steepened. Salman’s head clocked back and forth, swinging like a pendulum between Natasha and Pierre.

Natasha took his hand and squeezed gently. “I’m so sorry, Pierre. I’m sure this has been difficult for you.”

Marya’s eyebrow now threatened to disappear into her hairline.

“It could have been worse,” said Pierre.

“At least you’re here with us. That’s the main thing, isn’t it?”

“You know, I think I’d best leave you two in peace,” Marya said lightly. She picked another biscuit off the tray and stood from her seat, saucer and teacup still in hand. “The kitchen—no offense, Pierre—is an absolute disaster and the thought has been driving me mental for the past ten minutes. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to give it a quick clean.”

“You do realize she’s probably going to drag you to off Church this Sunday?” Natasha whispered as Marya left.

Pierre grimaced. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from her.”

Natasha gave a quick glance down the hall, as if to make sure that Marya was fully out of earshot. “If you don’t want to join us, you don’t have to. I’ll tell her you’re feeling poorly. I enjoy the services, though. I think they’re lovely, but I understand they’re not everyone’s cup of tea.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever had a response quite that gracious,” he said.

“I’ve no right to judge. Not after everything I’ve done.”

“Natasha, please,” he said. “Leave it in the past.”

“I’m sorry,” she sighed.

In tandem, they took another scalding sip of tea. After all of the benders he had subjected himself to over the years, it almost didn’t seem right that it made his eyes water so much.

“Where is your cousin?” said Pierre, desperate to change the subject. “She was there the last time I was over, wasn’t she?”

“I’m not sure if I’m supposed to tell you this, but Sonya broke off her engagement to Nikolai.” Natasha lowered her voice. “Marya wasn’t happy about that.”

Pierre half-choked on his mouthful of tea. “Is Sonya alright?”

“I don’t know. She’s really landed herself in hot water this time. Marya isn’t sure if she’ll find anyone now.” Her fingers began to trace aimless patterns along the handle of her cup. “She’s worried, I think. My brother Nikolai lost the family fortune in a game of cards and my parents were hoping for the two of us to secure good matches. And we all know how that worked out.”

“Why would she break off the engagement?”

Natasha’s eyes flicked down guiltily. “She didn’t want me to be alone.”

“Oh. I see.”

She took in another deep breath, and Pierre got the sense that whatever she had to say next wouldn’t be good news either. He raised his cup to his lips, hoping that the taste would dilute his unease.

“My father wrote me the other day. He said that they can’t keep sending us an allowance and Moscow is expensive.” Her voice hitched with a sigh. “He wants me to come home.”

Pierre wheezed all the way from the bottom of his diaphragm and beat his fist against his chest to dislodge the breath that had gotten stuck there. And Khione, supremely unhelpful as always, must have thought he was choking, because she frantically raised her paw and slapped him between the shoulders so hard that she almost knocked him from his seat. The cup in his hands went flying and poured tea all over the rug.

“Are you alright?” Natasha asked.

“You’re leaving Moscow?” he gasped, tears still leaking from his eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know yet,” she said despairingly. “I don’t think I know a damn thing anymore.”

“But do you want to leave?”

“Of course not.”

Pierre’s palms began to sweat. His heart thumped laboriously against his ribcage. “You said your family needs money? I can help you, Natasha.”

Her face twisted in confusion. “What?”

“My father left me everything when he died. I’ve more money than I could spend in a lifetime. Whatever you need, I’ll give you. How much is it? A thousand? Ten thousand? A hundred—?”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Natasha snapped.

“I’m sorry?”

“We don’t need your charity. It’s not your concern,” she said firmly.

Pierre’s stomach plummeted to his toes. Horror and humiliation swept through him. “I—oh, God, no, I never meant—”

“I’ll figure this out on my own. We’re not destitute just yet.”

She had a bit of Marya’s fire in her, he thought. He hadn’t been counting on that.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I had no idea.”

Natasha’s face crumpled. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m just worried.”

“If there is anything I can do—”

“It’s fine. I just wish Andrei was here. None of this would be happening if we were married. If he had come home. If he hadn’t left in the first place.”

“I miss him too.”

Natasha’s lip trembled. “I feel like I never got to say goodbye to him properly.”

If she began to cry, there was no doubt in Pierre’s mind that he would follow just as quickly, which was the only thing he dreaded now more than her leaving. With neither intent nor permission, his mouth disconnected from his mind and said, “Our Andrei wouldn’t have wanted a proper funeral anyway. He used to fall asleep in Mass nearly every week. He could hardly tolerate weddings, never mind a wake.”

Natasha stared at Pierre in confusion.

He rattled on, terrified of offending her but unable to stop, “You honestly think he would’ve wanted all the stupid formalities? When we were younger, he told me that he wanted to be left for the birds to pick clean.”

Natasha burst into laughter. Adrastos let out a high-pitched twitter, as if he were laughing too. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. He used to say that he hoped he died before Ippolit Kuragin so that he could torment him from the next life.”

“I never knew he was so morbid!”

“My God, Tasha, he was stubborn as an ass. Dry and stern as they come, but he was the best man I ever knew.”

Natasha sniggered. “I used to tease him about his hands. They were so small, weren’t they?”

Pierre’s heart began to slow. He took a biscuit off the tray and bit off one end. “All of him was small. He was such a scrawny thing when we met. Always scowling. I don’t think I saw him smile until I’d known him for a good few months.”

 “Yes, that sounds like him. Always so serious. It was never easy to make him smile, but it was worth it.”

“He would’ve laughed about my divorce. He never liked Hélène at all. He tried to bribe me out of my own wedding with a bottle of vodka.” Pierre shook his head at the memory. “Sad thing is, it almost worked.”

“He never drank around me.”

“Oh, that was probably for the best. He couldn’t hold his liquor at all. I used to find him sulking at parties after a glass of wine.”

“I don’t know if it was the music or the people that irritated him more, but he never did like parties.”

“Eulalia didn’t either.”

“She was always such a quiet thing too.”

“He never expected it to be a bloody owl,” Pierre chuckled. “I used to tell him he’d end up with a blind mole or a sloth if he kept sulking the way he did. He thought it was hysterical I wound up with a dæmon taller than me.”

“Andryusha told me he wanted her to settle as something noble. A big dog, like his father. But I think he really wanted a wolf.”

“A wolf? Christ. No wonder it pissed him off whenever he saw Dolokhov.”

Natasha laughed again. “I thought a snowy owl suited him perfectly.”

“Never easy to tell what they’ll settle as, is it?” said Pierre.

“Oh, no. Not me. I always knew mine would be a bird,” she said, stroking Adrastos’s head. “All the Rostovs have birds. Papa’s Ottilie is a robin, Mama’s Ossiander is an ibis, Vera’s Seren is a swan, Nikolai’s Neria is a hawk, and Petya’s Pleione is a sparrow. Adrastos was the last to settle, if you’d believe it. Even Petya’s settled before me. I was so mad, Pierre. I wanted to be happy for him, but I just couldn’t. I was a horrible envious little thing.”

“I was a late bloomer too. Khione didn’t settle till I was seventeen. Andrei never let me hear the end of it. ‘Are we going for the world record?’ he used to say. ‘Maybe she’ll never settle. Maybe you’ll stay a child forever.’ I told him he owed me a bottle of kvas when she finally settled. He told me he’d send me a crate of champagne if she ever did.” Khione gently rested her head on his shoulder and snuffled at his hair. Pierre leaned against her cheek. “And the best thing was, he followed through on it.”

Natasha finished off her tea and shook her head, smiling. “Do you ever wish she could still shift?”

“Sometimes.”

“Adrastos is perfect as a dove. And I love him dearly. When he settled, it felt like I was complete. But I miss it some days. They always told us that they settled once Dust settled on us, that it’d make us have sinful thoughts. Funny isn’t it? They make it a big to-do to celebrate, and then in the same breath, they tell us it’s our downfall.”

Pierre snorted. “Of course they do.”

Natasha frowned. Adrastos hopped from her shoulder to the rim of her saucer. “What do you mean?”

“That it’s a load of rubbish. None of it is—”

He cut himself off just as he heard Marya’s footsteps trodding back down the hall.

“Pierre, old friend,” she said, “you do know that there is tea on your rug?”

Pierre looked down to the tepid puddle at his feet and realized that his teacup was still on the ground, miraculously intact. “Ah. That there is.”

Marya clucked and shook her head. “I’ll send some maids by to interview tomorrow. We’ll have this fixed in no time. Natasha, darling, we really ought to be off now. I don’t like leaving Sofia alone in the house for too long.”

Natasha shot Pierre an apologetic glance and rose to her feet. “Thank you for your hospitality, Pierre.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he said clumsily. “You’ll come over again soon, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll send my cook over later,” Marya said. “Do take care of yourself, Pierre. And promise me you’ll eat a proper meal sometime this week.”

“Charitable as always, Marya,” Pierre said. He bent to kiss her cheek. “Thank you for visiting. Shall I order you a carriage?”

“We’re perfectly capable of finding one ourselves. Don’t you worry.”

Natasha took his hand with a slight tremble in her palm. Her fingers felt impossibly delicate, like the bones of a bird. “Until next time.”

Heat crept up the back of Pierre’s neck. In a spur of unexpected boldness, and without quite realizing why, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. Natasha’s eyes widened, but she didn’t pull her hand away.

“Thank you for your company, Countess Rostova,” he said.

Her lip curled into an angelic pink smile. “And yours as well, Count Bezukhov.”

From behind them, there came the snap of what Pierre recognized as Salman’s wings. He dropped Natasha’s hand as if burned, and the two of them drew away.

“Pierre,” Marya said, with a curious look in her eye. “If I might have a word?”

“Of course.”

“Marya—” Natasha began.

“Go get your shawl, dearie. I’ll meet you at the door.”

“I already have it on,” Natasha said sullenly.

Salman chirped and nipped at Adrastos’s tail. Natasha jumped with a shrill yelp.

“Natalya,” Marya said, with a little more force this time.

“Alright, I’m going,” said Natasha. She stalked off into the hallway, but not before offering Pierre an exasperated look and rolling her eyes.

“Is everything alright?” he asked Marya.

Marya folded her arms across her chest and straightened her back, which added another few inches to her already-considerable height. The red line of her mouth drew into a frown, the look of a stern governess, and Salman fixed Khione with a golden-eyed stare, as if she were carrion.

“What are your intentions with my goddaughter?” she said.

Pierre’s eyes widened. His collar threatened to choke off his voice, or perhaps it was the sudden knot of dread that had crawled into his throat. “M-my intentions?”

“Natalya is still a young girl who puts entirely too much faith in the goodness of men. I don’t want her to be let down. I’m sure you can understand why.”

Pierre swallowed thickly. “Of course. I never meant—”

“And I would hate to think that you were going to disappoint her.”

“Marya, you have to believe me, I would _never_ —”

“I do believe you, Pierre. I only want to be certain that we’re clear.”

“Well, we’re not. I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong!”

Salman’s beak clicked coldly. Pierre’s eyes were drawn by the gleam of his talons, cruelly-curved like scythes. He had known Marya for well over ten years now, but she was no less terrifying than she had been when they had first met.

It wasn’t the sort of thing that went with age, he realized.

“You’re a newly-divorced man,” Marya said calmly, “which could give her false hope. And if you hurt my goddaughter, Pierre, I won’t hesitate to end you. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her face melted into a warm, broad smile. She patted his cheek. “Good lad. I expect I’ll be seeing you for supper on Tuesday?”

Pierre gulped. “That sounds lovely.”

Marya retrieved her shawl from the coat rack and draped it over her shoulders, tucking the fabric over Salman’s feet so that his talons were hidden, for which Pierre was more grateful than he was willing to let on. “Wonderful. I’ll make sure to serve your favorite.”

Pierre watched from the sitting room window as they left. Natasha cast a glance over her shoulder and caught him staring. She raised her hand to wave. Pierre raised his hand with her, and a moment later, she and Marya had disappeared down Tolstaya Boulevard.

Once they were out of sight, Khione clambered onto the couch next to him and sank down onto her haunches. Pierre almost told her off for sitting on the furniture before remembering that Hélène wasn’t here anymore.

“That was nice,” she said quietly. “You should’ve done this a while ago.”

Pierre placed a hand on his sternum as a curious sensation welled in his chest. Perhaps it was trapped wind, or perhaps Marya had put too much rum in his tea, or perhaps he had just drunk it too quickly.

“Do you feel that too?” he asked Khione.

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you know what it is?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Neither do I.” Pierre chuckled to himself and leaned back against the cushions. “I quite like it, though.”

Khione sat back with him with a thoughtful nod. For once, she looked content. “So do I.”


	17. Skirmishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief respite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! Ya ever stare at a chapter for so long that you start to hate it, and end up scrapping 80% of what you wrote? (that happened here) 
> 
> Also the wonderful Saffiaan has created MORE fan art for this fic! Check it out at https://snag.gy/IuSngc.jpg because it is absolutely beautiful, and they are a Talent. 
> 
> ALSO hoo boy if y'all thought that EVCOVS was long, just wait. We've literally had to divide this fic into two google docs.

Hélène had always hated her bedroom.

Once, when they were children, Anatole had remarked that Kuragin Manor was more like a museum than a home—beautiful, but cold, austere, and liable to break at the slightest touch. It certainly felt that way as she took in the room around her, the laurel-green wallpaper paneled with grey and velvet, the armoire and its great silver mirror, the cabriole-legged dresser with its inlaid drawers, all the white-painted furniture and perfumed trinkets and sickly remnants of her childhood. Pierre’s house may have have been miserable and dark, but there had been warmth to it. That much she had been able to find. Here, there was only a saccharine artificial cold.

A chilly draft blew in behind her from the window, as if in agreement. Hélène turned her head as she tossed her reticule onto the vanity. Out through the open casement, over its padded seat and cushions, she could see the manor gardens and the cottonwood tree whose branches almost reached past the sill. Distantly, she remembered climbing those branches as a child. Less distant was the memory of Anatole’s attempt, when he had broken his arm in three separate places and crashed into Ippolit on the way down.

They hadn’t been allowed to open the windows again for a while afterwards. That hadn’t stopped her from trying to climb the tree, but then Dahanian settled a few years later into a form that wasn’t small or light enough to navigate its branches, and that had put an end to that.

Hélène turned away from the window and pushed these thoughts from her mind. Thinking would do her no good now. If she gave her mind a minute to catch up with the rest of her, it would wander back to the conversation from ten minutes ago, and Sergei Lavrov, and the soirée, and Vasily and Aline, and she would have to throw something at the wall and break it to keep herself from screaming if she didn’t fling herself out the window first.

She began to pace instead, heavily, thoughtlessly, angrily, and Dahanian crawled onto the window seat to watch her as her feet wore a furious hole into the floorboards.

“You’re making me nervous,” he said. His fur bristled until it gave him the appearance of being twice his normal size.

Hélène shrugged, never breaking pace. “That makes two of us.”

Suddenly, her hip smacked into something solid and sharp. Dahanian hissed as she did. She realized, a moment too late, that she had walked into the ledge of her writing desk.

It seemed that nothing had changed at all. The jewelry boxes and mirrors and compacts were all as she had last lain them down. The dried inkwells and quills and pens had remained in their old resting places. She skimmed her fingers over a sheet of stationary—even now, the paper still smelled faintly of lavender—and across the warm, supple leather of the blotter, almost molded to the imprints of her wrist and hands.

A cloud of dust greeted her when she tugged the drawer open. There wasn’t all that much to see here. Envelopes postmarked from France—Ippolit’s. Neatly-folded letters she and Anatole had exchanged during his first—and only, she prayed—deployment, organized by date. And tucked into the very back, a small black velvet pouch.

Dahanian brushed up against her and curled his tail around the leg of the desk. “You left it behind?” he asked.

Hélène thought he sounded oddly hurt.

“What good would it have done me? Just another trinket to gather dust,” she said, and delicately tugged open the drawstring.

Out fell a silver statuette in the shape of a snow leopard, a little smaller than half the width of her palm. As was tradition, Vasily had had the figurine made for her when she was fourteen, after Dahanian had finally settled. It wasn’t a perfect likeness. The tail was too short and the spots that dappled his shoulders and back were missing.

“I don’t remember it being so small,” Dahanian said.

“I did,” said Hélène, turning it over in her hands.

“Do you think Lito and Tolya still have theirs?”

Doubtful. Ippolit, unsentimental, forgetful, hopelessly inept Ippolit had probably lost his figurine in the pocket of an old coat or clumsily dropped it onto the tracks of the train from Petersburg to Paris. And as for Anatole, it wouldn’t have surprised her if he had pawned his, if not Ippolit’s as well, to spend on wine or opium or whatever had suited his fancy back when he was sixteen.

“Of course not,” she said.

Dahanian exhaled softly, amusedly. “I thought so too.”

“ _Shit_!”

Hélène startled and turned so quickly that the statuette went clattering back to her desk.

Fedya—the source of the noise, she realized—was braced between the window ledge and the tree with his feet balanced on its sturdiest branch, but even that was threatening to snap under his weight. As if to add further insult to injury, he had slung Samira across his shoulders like a milkmaid’s yoke, and she did not look pleased in the slightest.

“Christ, Fedya,” Hélène said, more relieved than angry. “You scared me half to death.”

Red in the face, sweating, and with a great heave, Fedya hoisted himself and Samira through the window. His feet hit the floor with a heavy bang that sent a vase on the armoire rattling warningly. “Couldn’t very well come through the front door, could I? Nice of your parents to plant a tree there.”

“You climbed it?”

“I think ‘climbed’ is a graceful way of putting it.”

Samira let out a discontent whimper.

“You’ve no right to complain,” snapped Fedya. “Do you know how sore my shoulders are?”

At last he bent to the floor, where her feet quickly scrabbled for purchase. Her fur looked as if it had been brushed the wrong way, but when Fedya moved to touch her head, a half-hearted apology, she gave a low growl and stalked off to the corner of the room to Dahanian.

“I couldn’t figure out how else to get her up here,” he said sheepishly. “I tried climbing without her the first time. It started to hurt halfway up.”

Hélène took him by the elbows and drew him in. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

He smelled of cigar smoke and beer. There was wet mud on his boots and grime on the hems of trousers. It was odd seeing him in such a harried state. She had never known a man more preoccupied with his appearance, save maybe for Anatole.

He ran a hand through his hair, slightly damp, as if he had gotten caught in a drizzle on the way over. “Are you alright? How are you parents?”

Hélène gave him a tight smile and ran her hands over his shoulders. His jacket, muddied and dusted with soot and God-knew-what, slid to the floor. “Let’s not talk about that.”

“Hél—”

“How are you finding Piter?”

Fedya paused. “Filthier than Moscow, if that’s possible,” he said, which sounded less like an answer and more a fumbling attempt to say anything at all in response.

“It’ll grow on you. Have you secured yourself a nice little flat?”

“Nice enough.”

 _Nice enough_. In Fedya’s lexicon, that could have meant anything from a palace to a concrete cell with a mop and a bucket.

Hélène wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him in until their chests were flush. “But it must be lonely.”

“I have Sami.”

“Maybe I’ll pay you a visit you sometime.”

“I don’t imagine it refined enough for your aristocratic taste.”

“Maybe not,” she conceded. “I suppose you’ll just have to stay here then.”

Fedya narrowed his eyes, as if he were trying to work out some hidden meaning beneath her words. It was right of him to be suspicious, given their history, but it was rare to see him resisting temptation so stiffly. If she bent one of his limbs the wrong way, he may very well have snapped and splintered under his own stubbornness.

Well, she thought, there were ways to rectify that.

She smoothed out a wrinkle in his collar. “Did you find our little treat?”

Fedya rolled his eyes and didn’t answer her.

“There’s no shame in accepting help from a friend, _luchik_.” She leaned up, smiling wickedly. “Besides, it was Pierre’s money.”

He chuckled. “Anatole’s doing, I presume?”

“His doing. My idea.”

“How ever can I thank you?” he said drily.

Hélène tipped her head up until their lips met, as if to say, _like this_.

And Fedya, evidently having no issue with that, reciprocated with vigor. She grabbed him again, by the forearms this time, and pulled him towards the bed. Her foot caught on the edge of the carpet, but Fedya caught and righted her before she could stumble backwards. All without loosening his grip or ever opening his eyes, he dragged his lips down her neck and squeezed her tight against his chest.

“I’ve missed this,” he breathed.

“So have I.”

One of his hands tugged at the sleeve of her dress, the other at her skirt. “I don’t like this.”

“I don’t either. Take it off.”

Fedya grinned and began fiddling with the clasps at the base of her neck. Her skirts pooled around her feet in a green-velvet puddle as he finally wrenched them free. Hélène stepped out, kicked the heavy fabric aside, and kissed him again. Soon his waistcoat was off, then his shirt was half-unbuttoned, and between it all she vaguely registered that they had slipped off their shoes, and a warm burst of impatience and excitement twisted through her like a shot of vodka. Anatole wasn’t here to interrupt them or derail Fedya’s attention. There were no eyes peering in through the window, no servants’ ears pressed to the door to eavesdrop, nothing but the two of them and then his belt on the floor and the sound of her own laughter.

“God, you’re perfect,” Fedya murmured, kissing her jaw. “Lena, _dorogaya_ —”

“No time for words,” Hélène said lightly, tugging his hair. “We have to enjoy this while we still can.”

Fedya grew stiff and drew away. “Wait, what?”

Hélène shrugged and just as quickly pulled him back in. Her hands drifted towards the waistband of his trousers. “It’s scandalous to be unmarried in this day and age, apparently. How do I unfasten this?”

The furrows of his brow deepened as she sank to her knees, fingers working nimbly at the buttons, but Fedya said nothing.

“I could’ve sworn it was simpler last time.”

Fedya closed his mouth. Firmly, he pried away her fingers.

Hélène looked up at him, her lips downturned in a pout. “What? Was it something I said?”

“I don’t want to do this.”

“Don’t be so cold, Fyedka. You aren’t allowed to be a tease tonight.”

“We have to talk about this.”

Hélène stood up straight, fisted her hands in the open lapels of his shirt, and began to tug it loose. “We don’t.”

Fedya grabbed her wrists and squeezed hard. Hélène went still.

“Let go,” she said.

“Will you keep your hands to yourself if I do?”

The fur along Dahanian’s back stood on end. Samira flattened her ears against her head and snarled, baring her teeth. They had never fought before, nothing serious at least, but the threat hung in the air all the same.

“Fine, _fine_ ,” Hélène snapped. She pulled at his arms until he released her. “God, what’s come over you?”

“You’re marrying again?”

“Fedya—”

“Answer the question, Hélène.”

“It’s not your business. And if you grab me again, I’ll let Danochka bite.”

Fedya’s face hardened. “That isn’t a _no_.”

“My parents have picked out a suitor for me. I’ll be meeting him shortly at a soirée. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Hélène—”

“Don’t.”

Fedya closed his mouth. Hélène was almost so startled and proud by the fact that she had finally gotten it into his head that arguing with her was pointless that she hardly noticed as he pressed something cool and metallic into her hands. His pocketknife.

“Here,” he said stiffly, after a moment of awkward silence, “take this. You need it more than I do.”

Hélène smoothed her fingers over the casing until her thumbnail caught on a latch and unsheathed a short blade. A single scratch ran down its side, almost bisecting it, but it felt balanced in her hand, and the knife-edge was still sharp and keen. She knew better than to be surprised. Fedya always took good care of his things.

“What could I possibly need this for?”

“To protect yourself,” he said.

“Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“It kept me safe in Persia and Germany. Now it’ll keep you safe here in Petersburg.”

“Keep me safe from what?” she scoffed. “The worst I’m going to encounter is an unsavory suitor.”

Fedya exhaled through his nostrils. She was being obstinate and she was fully aware of that, but irritating him was one of the few pleasures in life she could count on not to come back and bite her in the ass.

“To keep you safe from said unsavory suitors,” he said plainly.

“Well, I can’t exactly challenge them to a duel, can I?”

“Hence the knife. You shouldn’t fight, but a blade to the balls is a fair enough warning to any man.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m very serious. Here, I’ll show you.”

And with that, he stepped behind her and laid a hand on her wrist. The skin of his palm was rough and warm, lined through with scar tissue and calluses.

“Loosen your grip. Feet shoulder width apart. Stand like you mean it. No mercy.”

“I’m not fighting in the war, Fedya.”

“Could you please take this seriously?”

“What’s the point? I’ll never be able to use this,” she said.

“Of course you will. You only need to learn how to hold it properly. The rest is all instinctual.”

“And what happens after I pull a knife on him?”

Fedya stared in confusion. “He leaves you alone.”

Of course he wouldn’t understand. Anything you couldn’t stab or shoot into working your way was entirely beyond his comprehension. Such was the nature of the world—the sky was blue, the grass was green, Hélène was Vasily’s favorite, and Fedya still had yet to learn the distinction between society and the battlefield.

“And after that?” she said. “When I’m still married to him? What then?”

Fedya frowned.

Hélène’s heart, already heavy with dismay, sank a little further.

“Are you alright?” he said quietly.

What a stupid question. Who was alright? Who could be, in times like this?

But there was no point to it. She forced herself to smile instead, and forced down all the dread and anger and misery that had been burning through her since she had left Moscow.

Fedya cupped her cheeks. “Lena?”

Without answering him, or perhaps in response, Hélène sighed and leaned forwards to kiss him again. The knife went clattering to the ground.

His lips were warm and chapped. She surged toward him greedily, pulling him in, savoring the beat of his heart and the roughness of his beard and the firm press of his fingers. What husband could have given her this?

Then from across the room there came a low whistle, and the two of them sprang apart in terror.

It was only Anatole. He was leaning against the doorframe with Danali perched on his shoulder. A large green bottle was tucked under his arm.

“What are you two up to?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Fedya slumped back against the bedpost, one hand over his heart. “Don’t scare us like that, Tolya.”

Anatole shrugged petulantly and strode into the room. “Not my fault that neither of you think to lock the door.”

“You little sneak,” Hélène hissed. “How long have you been standing there?”

He shrugged again and set the bottle on her desk. “Dunno.”

“You’re a complete arse, you know that?”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Are you two still bickering?” Fedya said.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Anatole announced. He flung himself backwards onto the bed and glared at the ceiling. “Lena is dead to me. She left me alone with our parents.”

Hélène’s smile must have been cruel and cold, but she didn’t care. She didn’t have it in her to feel sorry for him. Not now. “All’s fair in love and war and dealing with Mama and Papa, dear brother,” she said. “Did they say anything else?”

“About your prospects? They focused on mine after you left. Thank you,” he said irately, “for that.”

“There’s no need to worry. Mama isn’t going to let you marry.”

“It’s not Mama I’m worrying about.”

“Oh, Tolya,” Fedya crooned as he tousled Anatole’s hair. “Just be your usual rakish self and you’ll have any unlucky ladies running for the hills in no time at all.”

Anatole narrowed his eyes, clearly trying to decide whether or not he’d been insulted. It was only with great effort that Hélène didn’t dissolve into laughter.

“What has Papa done now?” she said instead.

Anatole’s face darkened. He began to recite, as if reading from an invisible list, “No drinking. No gambling. No parties. I’m forbidden from all clubs and taverns and pubs and bars in Petersburg. Curfew is eleven o’clock. No women allowed in the manor. No men either, but that goes without saying, I suppose.”

“ _Pauvre petit caneton_ ,” Hélène snapped.

“I’m a virtual prisoner in this house. I might just as well be dead.” He slumped back, sank a little lower on the mattress, and folded his arms beneath his head. “What’s worth living for now?”

“For God’s sake, Anatole, this is how it’s always been.”

Anatole looked at her out of the corner of his eye and then back at the ceiling. Danali crawled onto his chest and laid her head against his collarbone. “For you, perhaps,” he grumbled.

Fedya leaned across the mattress to nibble at Anatole’s earlobe. “ _Bednyaga_.”

Anatole tipped his head back and let Fedya have at it, but his scowl remained firmly in place.

“I’m too annoyed to be this sober,” he said. “And I stole that bottle of wine from downstairs. I think we ought to drink it.”

“Now, there’s a plan I can get behind,” said Fedya.

Hélène took the bottle off her dresser and turned it over in her hands. “Oh, this is the Alsace-Riesling,” she said. “Bad move, Tolya. Papa will throw a fit once he finds out.”

“ _I_ _f_ he finds out,” Anatole corrected, sounding more confident than he should have.

Hélène’s mouth twisted into a frown. She unstoppered the bottle anyway.

“That’s the spirit, Lena,” he said. “You’ve still got it.”

“I’m barely three years older than you, you brat.”

“Fair. Not as bad as this one.” He gestured towards Fedya. “He’s becoming an old man before our very eyes.”

Hélène laughed and ran her fingers through the grey streaks in Fedya’s beard. “He’s not old, he’s just distinguished.”

Fedya slapped her hand away. “Alright, that’s enough of that.”

“Agreed,” said Anatole. He pried the bottle from Hélène’s open hands. “You’re stark raving mad if you expect me to face dinner sober.”

And with that, he began to drink.

When he was done, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Christ. God. That’s beautiful.”

“You do realize we’re going to have to suffer through Church hungover?”

Fedya grimaced.

“I don’t give a single solitary damn,” Anatole declared, holding the bottle out to her. “Drink.”

Hélène shook her head indulgently and took a long swig. It went down sweet and silken, honeyed and tart. Anatole, to his credit, had exquisite taste.

The minutes melted away from there. By the time they had half-emptied the bottle, a rosy flush had risen to their cheeks, and Hélène’s eyes had stopped nervously flicking towards the door. There was nobody coming to find them here.

Not until suppertime, at least.

Somewhere in between the bottle of wine and a flask of vodka that Fedya had produced, the three of them wound up sprawled across the floor in a drunken tangle, dæmons in tow, and a warm, sleepy glow had risen in Hélène’s chest. How had she been so fretful all morning? What was there to worry about now, now that they were all here?

“How about we get on the bed?” murmured Fedya.

Hélène yawned and leaned her head against the bedpost. “No. I’m perfectly comfortable here.”

“I’d like to,” said Anatole.

“Alright. We’ll stay here then,” Fedya said.

Anatole looked hurt, but he was quick to recover. “Why are we talking about sleep anyways?,” he said. “The night is young, even if you two aren’t.” And without further preamble, he lunged forwards across their laps, wrangled the empty bottle back into his own hands, and tipped it upside-down. Not a drop. He shook it again, stubbornly, and then confusedly, until Danali leaned up on her hind legs and peered into its mouth.

“ _C’est fini_ ,” Hélène announced. “ _On en a bu tout_.”

Anatole pulled a disappointed face. “You mustn’t talk like that, Lena. You’ll confuse poor Fyedka. All he knows in French are the swears.”

Fedya offered his flask in no particular direction. “No vodka left either. You greedy sods.”

Anatole still had yet to let go of the empty bottle. “I could go back downstairs and fetch us another drink,” he said. “There was a bottle of Szarmorodini on the shelf as well.”

“God, I love tokay,” Hélène sighed. “I haven’t had a drop in ages.”

Anatole giggled. “I used to help myself to Pierre’s on occasion. Aszú ’98. Delectable stuff. Figured he couldn’t drink it all on his own.”

Fedya pocketed the flask and looped one arm around Hélène’s waist, resting his hand on her hip. The other he laid on Anatole’s thigh just above the knee. “I wonder what your parents would think if they knew they raised a thief.”

“Can’t be much worse than what they think already,” said Hélène.

“Not that it matters anymore,” Anatole continued. He rubbed tenderly at his neck, and his face caught somewhere between laughter and a grimace. “I don’t imagine I’ll be borrowing any more of Bezukhov’s tokay.”

“I should hope not.”

To which he laughed, childishly, but with a decidedly malicious slant. “We’ve both had our share of bad luck, eh, Lena?”

“That’s different,” Hélène said. “Bad luck follows me. You chase it and try to convince it to hop into bed with you.”

“If you’re talking about the Rostova girl—”

“Among others.”

“—I’ve decided I’m never doing it again. No more shy little girls. I’ve sworn off of them.”

“I wonder how long this resolution of yours will hold.”

Anatole wrinkled his nose. “Forever. They’re all too nervous. Too frigid.”

“You could stand to learn a lesson or two from them,” Fedya said.

“Perhaps that’s why our dear Petrushka was so infatuated with her,” Anatole said, nodding sagely. “The thrill of the chase.”

“He’ll be chasing her for a while,” said Hélène. “I doubt the Rostovs will let their daughter marry a eunuch.”

“It’s a match made in Hell.”

At _Hell_ , Fedya shot him a disappointed, cross look.

“I doubt he would even have any idea of what to do with her,” said Hélène.

Anatole raised an eyebrow “So you two never—?”

“Of course not,” she snapped. “What sort of a person do you think I am?”

“So the divorce was legitimate?”

“What does that matter?”

“I would suggest we drink to that,” he said, “but seeing as we’ve nothing left to drink, I think I’d like to propose a toast instead.”

Fedya huffed a flat, unamused, “Dear God.”

Anatole held the empty bottle high above his head with a shaking hand and said, “To your divorce! A Bezukhov no more, thank Christ, and may the old man drown in his vodka, damn him to Hell.”

Fedya scowled again. They both ignored him.

Anatole held a hand over his heart in a rare moment of genuine sentimentality. “I’m proud of you, Lena.”

Hélène shook her head. “I’ve done nothing worth being proud of.”

“Yes, you have,” he said. “And I owe you more than I could ever repay. You stood up to Pierre for me. You held your ground. I was terrified. Scared out of my wits. But you—you were fearless. I don’t know what would’ve happened to me if you hadn’t been there. Died, probably. That’s a bit morbid, isn’t it? But it’s true.”

“Tolya—”

“And then you stood up to him again after that. And to the Bishop. And the fucking Magistrate. And to Mama and Papa. So I’m proud of you, and I have many reasons to be. Very, very proud.”

A lump rose in Hélène’s throat. Anatole, selfish, thoughtless, self-absorbed Anatole had never thought to thank her after everything she had done for him over the years. She hadn’t expected it to mean so much to her when he finally did. She wasn’t sure if she had expected him to do it at all.

“You daft fool,” she said, wiping her eyes with a watery smile. “Come here.”

Smiling too, on the verge of laughter, Anatole tipped forwards into her outstretched arms. She remembered a time when he had barely come up to her shoulder, and though now he stood almost a full head taller than her, there was hardly any difference in the feel of it. It was easy to feel protective like this, in a way she had never been able to feel with Fedya.

“Thank you,” she murmured, tightening her arms around him.

Anatole kissed her cheek. “I love you, Lena.”

“Oh, Tolya.”

She hardly even noticed that Dahanian had padded over to the other side of the footboard, where Fedya was sitting, and began to nuzzle against his chest.

“Off,” grunted Fedya. “You’re too heavy.”

But Dahanian, even less inclined than Hélène to listen to anyone’s orders, dug his claws into Fedya’s thigh and began contentedly kneading his leg. Fedya shoved him off anyway, earning a disgruntled huff for his troubles.

“Come here, Danochka,” Hélène cooed.

Dahanian shot Fedya a contemptuous look and padded over to Hélène. He rubbed his head against her cheek and flopped onto her lap with a self-satisfied purr.

“He’s horrid to you, isn’t he?” she said, stroking Dahanian’s head. “Poor thing.”

Fedya leaned his head against the rug at the foot of her bed and stared at the ceiling, where a lurid scene had been painted in lime plaster and sinopia. In it, a young man was kneeling on the ground. Above him stood an older man who had his hand snarled in his hair, yanking it back, and a knife pressed against the young man’s throat.

“What,” Fedya asked with surprising sobriety, “is that horrendous thing?”

“It’s Abraham and Isaac,” said Hélène, following his gaze. “Genesis twenty-two.”

“I know what it is. But why is it on your ceiling?”

“Mama’s a fanatic. And she knew Papa would hate it.”

Anatole craned his neck with a quizzical look. “What was it she used to say, Lena? Something about maternal love?”

“How a mother would _never_ consider doing anything like that to her children.”

Anatole snorted. “I should fucking hope not.” He turned to Fedya. “You should see the one on my ceiling. Daniel in the lion’s den.” He shook his head despairingly. “God only knows how she chose it.”

“ _Lions_ , Tolya,” Hélène said. “Like Asteria. Think for a minute before you speak, would you?”

It took a good few seconds for that to sink in.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “D’you think Papa ever caught on?”

“Of course.”

Anatole whistled. “You really have to admit, in terms of flair alone, Mama’s got a leg up on him.”

“The metaphor’s more than a little heavy-handed.”

“And fucking morbid,” said Fedya. “What’s wrong with you people?”

“What, your parents never filled your childhood with horrific religious imagery and warnings of eternal damnation?” said Anatole.

“My mother was a lovely woman, actually,” Fedya said curtly. “And I never met my father.”

Hélène frowned and curled in closer. “I didn’t know that.”

“There’s a lot you two don’t know about me.”

“Tell us something else, then,” said Anatole.

“My family used to live in a cottage in a town called Kushva at the foothills of the Urals. That was before the war. There really isn’t much to it. When I was old enough, I enlisted, and I haven’t been back since.”

“A cottage in the mountains,” Anatole mused. “Yes, that suits you.”

“It’s beautiful. You should see it for yourselves.”

“And how would you go about getting us there?”

“I’d abduct you. Hire a troika and a driver, come up to the house in the dead of night, and off we’d go. Your parents wouldn’t even realize you were missing until we were halfway there.”

“How terribly romantic of you,” said Hélène.

“What were you expecting? Champagne and caviar?”

Anatole tipped his head back with an airy chuckle. “Jesus Christ. You’d have to drag me kicking and screaming.”

Fedya grinned, tightening his hold around Anatole’s waist. “You think that’d stop me?” he said teasingly.

“Me, a peasant?” scoffed Anatole. “You’ve lost your senses, _mon cher_. I’d sooner—I’d sooner…” He fumbled for a moment, searching for something appropriately dramatic to say. “I’d sooner face down the _Grande Armée_ armed with nothing but my violin.”

The mental image that those words prompted was so ludicrous that they all laughed in unison.

“You’re ridiculous, the both of you,” said Hélène. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

Fedya sighed. “It was only a joke. I doubt it’s still standing. It’s probably nothing but straw and dust.”

“You’re right, though,” Anatole said. “We ought to travel.”

“Travel?” said Hélène.

“There’s so many places I haven’t been. So many places I’d love to visit someday. Paris. _Nom de Dieu_. Could you imagine Paris?”

“Not till the war’s over.”

“Upstanding patriots, the both of you,” Fedya said flatly.

“Odessa,” Anatole continued. “Frankfurt. Copenhagen. London. Constantinople. Budapest.”

“The two of us’ll be married by then. Shackled down like—like those circus elephants. You remember the Russian Circus, Tolya? They don’t realize they could just rip their chains away. That’ll be us. No traveling for us,” Hélène said bitterly. She gave Anatole a quick look. “Not for me, at least.”

“Lena’s cut off,” Fedya said. “You get too maudlin when you’re drunk.”

“How else am I supposed to feel? I just got rid of the first husband.”

“Perhaps I’ll just propose to you instead.”

Hélène sighed with a darkly comedic smile. “I think our father might actually be more amenable to pawning Anatole off to you than me.”

“He’d be glad to be rid of me,” Anatole said. “The profligate prince, finally chained down to someone mildly respectable. It’d be a perfect ending. Loose strings all tied up.” He eyed Fedya curiously. “Such a shame we’re both men.”

A strange expression came over Fedya’s face. The air of the room, once warm and buzzing, seemed to still around them. “Yes,” he said coolly, tightly, “it is a shame.”

Anatole frowned and reached for his hand. “Fedya?”

Fedya drew away sharply and sat up, Samira with him. “I should be off. I haven’t even unpacked my things yet.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hélène said. “What’s the rush?”

Still, Anatole said nothing.

“Your parents will ask for you soon. And I still have to speak with my landlord.”

“Fine. It doesn’t matter to us,” said Anatole.

His voice was ice, but the look on his face was defeated. Dread rose in Hélène’s throat, and then pity.

“You’ll be back, won’t you, though?” she said quickly. “You’ll come to the soirée?”

Fedya turned to her and raised an eyebrow. “Am I invited?”

“I’m asking you, aren’t I? We both want you there.”

Debatable. But it didn’t matter, since Anatole had nothing to say in protest.

“Alright,” said Fedya. He kissed her cheek, a quick goodbye. “Then I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll send a messenger to the Haymarket.”

“Sorry to leave on such an abrupt note,” he said. His eyes darted to Anatole, still and silent and glowering. “But it’s for the best.”

Then he and Samira left the way they had come—through the window, and with great haste. Once they were gone, Hélène reached over to touch Anatole’s shoulder.

“You know he didn’t mean it like that,” she said gently.

Anatole’s voice was cold and hard. “Yes, he did.”

“Toto—”

“I should get ready for dinner,” he snapped. Danali leapt to his shoulder as he pushed himself off the mattress and straightened his waistcoat. “So should you. I don’t imagine Mama and Papa will want you coming downstairs looking like a tramp.”

Hélène’s breath froze in her throat. She dug her fingernails into her palm in a vain attempt to ward away the hot flash of hurt that burned through her. But Anatole mustn’t have seen any of it, because he had already stalked off and slammed the door shut behind him.


	18. Tea & Bad Tidings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two couples share a moment alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're so sorry for the long wait! Hopefully the double post makes up for it!
> 
> We <3 comments and kudos a Lot! Please leave us some!!

To this day, the question of whether he had first requested Anna Pavlovna Scherer’s company for tea or if she had assumed his hospitality was a given and invited herself was one that often rattled around in the back of Vasily’s mind like a loose pebble in a shoe.

However it had started, it had become something of a ritual of theirs. Like clockwork, every Sunday after they had retired from Church, Anna would order a carriage to Kuragin Manor and he would meet her at the door. Presently they sat together in the sun parlor, taking tea. The air sang with warmth and the hum of early-afternoon crickets, and outside, the manor gardens lay lush and sprawling with greenery, like a hidden Paradise in the heart of Petersburg. This, Vasily thought, was the way life ought to be enjoyed. A fine home, fine weather, and fine tea.

“You must be so relieved to have dear Elena back home. I’m sure you missed her dreadfully,” Anna said, drawing him out of that line of thought.

God only knew what they had been discussing beforehand, since he had only been half-listening until now. Gossip, no doubt, and Anna had probably rattled on as if she were talking to thin air while the tea went cold. Inwardly, Vasily sighed. He should have known that her interest would soon migrate to his personal affairs now that there was something meatier to sink her proverbial teeth into.

“Of course,” he said, with deliberate ease. “She’s my pride and joy.”

Anna’s smile, already brittle, tightened. And then, because as a principle she never offered a positive sentiment without immediately following it up with a complaint, she added, “I must say, though, I certainly wasn’t expecting to see your youngest back in Petersburg so soon.”

“Nor was I. But Elena is very attached to him.”

“How sweet.”

Her tone of voice conveyed the opposite opinion. Vasily could hardly say that he was surprised. Anna Pavlovna had despised Anatole since he was six years old, who, shortly after being introduced to her and still well within earshot, had dubbed her _Horseface_. Her contempt for the other two-thirds of his progeny was better-concealed, which was tolerable, and as for Vasily himself, well, affection didn’t necessarily factor into the nature of their relationship so much as usefulness, which they both had in spades.

It was a practical arrangement. And Vasily, being a practical man, was quite content with that.

With a wry little smirk, Anna set her teacup aside on the etagère. Parvanè fluttered to perch at her wrist, a lone spot of orange in a room of blues and greens. “I suppose it’s all for the best that she has him for comfort, what with everything that’s happened. How is she holding up, the poor darling?”

“She’s upset. She’s taken to holing herself up in her room and refusing to speak to us.”

“How perfectly terrible. I’ve never cared for Bezukhov, you know. Elena was always far too charming for that recluse.”

“Might I remind you, Annette,” Vasily said drily, “that you were the one who introduced them?”

Anna waved her hand dismissively, jolting Parvanè back into the air. “We all make mistakes, dear. Besides, everything I did, I did for you.”

Vasily’s smile was as easy as it was false. “Well, she’ll have to marry again. And soon, might I add.”

“That oughtn’t be a problem,” she said confidently. “She’s still a lovely thing. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding a suitable match for her.”

“That’s not the issue at hand.”  

“Oh?”

“She’s refusing to cooperate. She’s always been far too headstrong for her own good, but she’s never been this sullen before.”

“Perhaps she just needs something to get her mind off of things. Who were you thinking for her?”

“Lavrov. He’s expressed interest.”

Anna chuckled and leaned back in her seat. “Sergei Lavrov? Bottom-feeding now, are we?”

“He’s a good man. I’m sure he’ll provide for her.”

“Are you quite sure you aren’t willing to entertain any other options?”

“Anna,” he said testily.

“I’m only asking out of curiosity! My God, what made you think of Lavrov?”

“Half the city’s away fighting in the war. I’m doing the best I can with the half that’s left behind.”

“Such a shame that you wasted her potential on Bezukhov. Divorce,” she mused, shaking her head. “Did she ever tell you why?”

“Pierre is impotent. They never consummated the marriage.”

Anna’s face cracked into a wide grin, more gloating than it was disbelieving, and she laughed her horrid tea-kettle laugh and went on laughing for longer than was appropriate. “You’ll forgive me, Vaska. You must. It’s dreadful, I understand, and I’ve nothing but sympathy for the poor girl, but my _God_.”

Vasily crossed his legs and stroked a long, slow line down Asteria’s back. “It was an unfortunate situation. I’ve anticipated some of the rumors. We’re hosting an event in a few weeks to reintroduce her and Anatole to Petersburg.”

Anna raised an eyebrow. “And I assume you’re inviting Lavrov?”

“That would be the logical conclusion, wouldn’t it?” he snipped.

“You should have her wear the green silk number she wore to the end of the opera season. It’s a wonderful color for her complexion. Youthful-looking too. But not those pearls. They’re far too matronly.”

“She won’t like that.”

“I’ll have word with her, then.”

Oh, she would love that, the meddling old bat. Another ear to pour gossip into. Another sensation to titter over at her salons and teas with the assorted busybodies of Petersburg. She’d have the engagement announced to all of Russia before Lavrov could even propose.

“I can’t imagine she’ll listen to you,” said Vasily.

Which must have been precisely what Anna wanted to hear, if the look on her face was anything to go by. “Darling,” she said, drawing out the _a_ , “if you want her to cooperate, you’ll have to find her someone better than Lavrov. The poor dear’s been so disillusioned after Count Bezukhov.”

Vasily clenched his jaw. “I’ve raised my daughter to respect my judgement. And I expect her obedience.”

Anna didn’t seem to have listened to him at all. “It is short notice, but I’m sure I could find some rich young war hero if she’d be more amenable to such a thing.”

“No. It has to be Lavrov.”

Anna narrowed her eyes, considering him carefully. “What are you up to, Vaska? You get a little sparkle in your eye when you’re planning something.”

“Lavrov might not be as well off as Bezukhov, but he has his uses.”

“So, you want to catch a politician.”

“As I said, he has his uses.”

“The Minister to France. Such an interesting choice. And your eldest is still in Paris, is he not?”

“Yes. He’s studying at the Sorbonne.”

“Ah. Curious. He’ll have an in with the _Grande Armée_ , should it come to that.”

“I suppose.”

The look in her eyes was that of a marksman the moment before drawing a fatal shot. “One would almost think you were preparing for invasion.”

 _Clever_ , Vasily thought.

“I’d be a fool not to, Annette. The Tsar is a lost cause. Prussia and Poland have already fallen, and Russia won’t stay standing much longer the way things are going.”

“What a pessimist you are.”

“Hardly. I’m a realist. I only want to be certain that if Napoleon takes up residence in the Kremlin, we’re prepared.”

“And what of your youngest?”

“What about him?”

“You have one son already in Paris. And you have Lavrov for Elena. What about Anatole?”

Vasily hesitated for a moment. “He’ll be alright. His French is better than Elena’s. And Ippolit’s as well.”

Anna tutted and took another sip of tea. “That’s hardly a guarantee, Vaska.”

“Well, if all else fails, I suppose he’ll try to cling to Elena as he always does. And I’m sure Elena will indulge him past the point of reason.”

Anna frowned and leaned forwards in her seat, lowering her voice. “It’s a little odd, don’t you think? To see siblings so close.”

“Your point?”

“I’ve heard some unsavory things. I don’t mean to alarm you, Vaska, and I’m certainly not trying to imply anything. But I do think you should be aware of what people are saying.”

Vasily’s spine went ramrod straight as a thrill of ice shot through him. His hands clenched in Asteria’s fur. “About Elena?”

Anna clucked and shook her head. “About the two of them. Together.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Three years with an impotent husband in the house and two with the brother. Not to mention some of the unseemly things I’ve heard about Anatole and Captain Dol—”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, in a grave voice.

“You must understand, my darling, word travels quickly these days. Our men are off fighting and people are bored and fretful and looking a little further into things than they should. And your youngest’s reputation isn’t exactly gleaming, if you’ve heard of some of his exploits in Moscow. I don’t think many would put it past him to—”

From the other end of the room there came a faint but distinct knocking. Unannounced, which must have meant it wasn’t a servant. Anna closed her mouth immediately. She had good reason to—the door had been left open, and when Vasily turned his head to whoever it was that had disturbed them, he saw Princess Marya Bolkonskaya, tall and stick-thin and lost-looking in her mourning gown, standing in the hallway.

What a pitiful sight she made. A same-sex dæmon was an oddity enough, but the princess did herself no favors with her manner of dress. The black washed her out till she was white as a ghost and the cut was at least a decade out of date. She looked ancient and childlike all at once.

“Marie, dear, is something the matter?” asked Anna, slightly flustered.

“I’m sorry,” Mary whispered, pressing her hands to the doorframe. She seemed intent on disappearing into the wallpaper. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Anna sighed and gestured for Mary to step forwards. “Don’t loiter, darling. It’s very unbecoming. Have you been acquainted with Prince Kuragin?”

Vasily stood, bowing his head, and kissed her hand. “It’s a pleasure, my dear.”

Mary flushed a brilliant red. Her little shrew-dæmon—Anselma, if he remembered correctly—turned and buried her face in her braid. “Thank you, Prince Kuragin.”

“What are you up to, darling?” asked Anna.

“I was trying to find the chapel,” Mary said quietly. “I was going to light a candle for my brother and I wanted to know if you’d like to pray with me.”

Anna gave her a tight smile and went for another sip of tea, even though it must have been cold by now. “No, thank you.”

“My wife keeps an icon of Saint Anna of Kashin down the hall,” Vasily offered, settling back into his chair. “You’re more than welcome to pray to it, if you’d like.”

“Thank you,” Mary said.

“Is that all?” asked Anna.

Mary nodded bashfully, doe-like.

“Run along, then. I’ll come and find you when I’m ready to leave. And close the door on your way out.”

Mary nodded again and pottered off. Whether out of forgetfulness or not having heard properly, she left the door open behind her.

Anna rolled her eyes as she turned back to Vasily. “I swear, that girl has almost no redeeming qualities.”

“She is a plain little thing,” Vasily said. “But she seems sensible enough.”

“Wealthy, too. It’s a shame old Bolkonsky kept her cloistered away for so long. You could have learned a lesson or two from him, the way you let your children run loose.”

“Ippolit and Elena have always been quite well-behaved, as you might recall,” he said tersely.

“But I don’t believe Anatole inherited your sensibilities.”

Vasily sighed and sat back in his chair, massaging his temples with the pads of his fingers to quell the headache that was building there. “I’ve all but given up, Annette. I don’t know what on Earth I’m going to do with him.”

Something like excitement glittered in her eyes. “Darling,” she began, over the rim of her teacup, “I just had the oddest little thought, but I don’t know if you’d approve.”

Vasily folded his hands beneath his chin. Asteria turned her head, only slightly, but so that she was looking at Anna Pavlovna instead of Parvanè. “Do tell, Annette.”

“Your boy needs someone respectable to teach him some manners and sensibility, and the poor little princess has been so lonely ever since her brother—”

“You want Anatole for Princess Bolkonskaya?”

“It’s a perfect arrangement,” she said merrily. “He’s handsome and she’s homely. The children will be average-looking at worst. She’ll be smitten. Of course, the question remains as to how amenable he would be to this arrangement.”

“That doesn’t matter. He’ll learn to tolerate whoever he marries.”

“A marriage is hardly a thing to be _tolerated_ , darling. You of all people should know that.”

Vasily gritted his teeth. “My wife has given me three children and maintained my household,” he snapped. “She’s done nothing to incur my displeasure.”

Anna asked, in a slow, sweet voice, “And what of your boredom?”

“Annette,” he said sharply. “That’s quite enough.”

Her hand came to a rest on his knee. At the same time, Parvanè landed at the crown of Asteria’s head. “You’ve been so cold these past few weeks. For goodness’ sake, I’ll convince Elena to consider Lavrov myself if I can get a smile out of you.”

“And you’ll come to our event?”

“Of course, _mon chéri_. As long as I can bring Princess Bolkonskaya.”

Vasily sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Anna, really…”

“It’s a fair enough deal. Generous, in fact. And won’t this be so much easier for you?”

“I’ve invited the Byelovs to the soirée. They’ve already agreed to introduce their daughter Agrafena to Anatole.”

Anna scoffed. “The Byelovs? Really, Vasily, I had hoped you’d try to do right by at least _one_ of your children.”

“It’s a perfectly respectable match.”

“And you haven’t considered anyone else?”

“I have, as a matter of fact. Countess Rostova the younger is newly single as well.”

“The Rostovs are practically destitute.”

“Anatole hardly has the right to be choosy.”

“But you do.”

Vasily considered this for a moment. He would have to disinvite the Byelovs, which would no doubt cause some hard feelings, and it would be a gamble, but the Bolkonsky fortune was nothing to sneeze at, and the Bald Hills were a good distance away from Petersburg. Anatole could stay cloistered away with the religious little mouse and do the family some good for once, and it would spare Vasily another dozen or so headaches.

Self-serving on both ends. Prideful as he was, Vasily had to admit that Anna had made a strong case.

“Very well,” he said finally.

Anna gave a smug grin, as if she had just won a round of Boston, and leaned forwards to kiss his cheek. “I’m so glad you can see from my point of view, Vaska. These things always work out for the best.”

* * *

 

Marya did, in the end, make good on her promise to drag Pierre to church.

The last time he had attended service had been three years ago, the day he had married Hélène. Needless to say, he didn’t remember any of the prayers, or when to stand, or when to sit, and worse still, Khione was too broad to fit in any of the pews, and Marya, clucking at the inconvenience, had loudly ushered them to the back row, where the priest’s voice was so quiet he was almost inaudible. The whole thing was exactly as riveting as watching paint dry. If it hadn’t been for Natasha’s whispered instructions and Sonya’s incredibly unflattering imitation of Marya while her back was turned, Pierre may very well have dozed off on his feet.

After the service had ended, Marya shepherded them into a carriage, which was a horrendously tight squeeze once Khione had climbed in. A wheel careened over an upended cobblestone as they turned the corner and bucked them into the air. Pierre’s head smacked against the ceiling with a dull _thwack_ at the same time as Khione’s.

“It’s nice to see you finally awake, Pyotr,” Marya said curtly. On her shoulder, Salman turned to fix him with a critical look.

Pierre’s face grew hot. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

Marya tutted and stroked Salman’s tail feathers. “It happens to the best of us. I do expect you to participate more next week, though.”

Pierre nodded dumbly. Natasha and Sonya, seated on either side of Marya with their respective dæmons nestled in their laps, giggled into their hands, and Marya shot them a small, conspiratorial smile.

“We’ll take tea with you now, if it’s quite alright,” she continued.

The tone of her voice indicated that a _yes, of course_ was the only answer she expected, and Pierre was so embarrassed at having been told off that he immediately stammered out an affirmative.

It had begun to drizzle by the time they arrived at 1867 Prechistensky Boulevard. Spectacles fogged-over from the rain, Pierre bustled up to the porch and rooted around in his coat pocket for the keys. Though the lock turned with ease, the handle put up a bit more resistance.

“You still haven’t hired a butler?” asked Marya incredulously.

“I didn’t think it was necessary,” he grunted, throwing his considerable weight against the door. Finally, with a dull groan, it gave. “Here we go. After you, ladies.”

Marya had had a maid by the name of Dunia sent by to tidy the place over the weekend, so the sitting room was now slightly less of a disaster than it had been the week before. A small fire warmed itself over in the hearth, and though the weather had since begun to dredge itself from the clutches of winter, they were slow to remove their coats even as they shuffled past the doorway. Khione’s fur glistened with rain droplets that dripped onto the carpet. Dunia wouldn’t be happy to see that, given that she had cleaned it only the day before.

Tea, a dash of rum, a plate of biscuits, brief conversation in between it all, and once the cups and saucers and dishes had been washed and dried and put away, Marya shrugged on her shawl again and said, “Perhaps we ought to take a stroll. It’s too lovely a day to waste the afternoon shut indoors. There’s a park not even a few blocks from here.”

Never mind that the rain had started to pick up and the park was a good twenty minutes’ walk away. Pierre supposed those things didn’t matter to people like Marya, who disdained idleness. But his own legs were tired from alternately sitting and standing most of the morning, and the tea and rum had left his eyes warm and sleepy. Hardly enough to justify a nap, but a walk seemed a bit much to ask of him.

“Really, Marya, I think I’d just prefer to stay here,” he said.

“So would I,” Natasha added, a little too quickly.

Marya looked as if she were about to say something, but Sonya had already started to her feet and said, “I’ll go with you, Marya. I think I could do with some sunlight.”

She shot Natasha a quick wink and reached for her pelisse.

Marya’s disapproval quickly gave way to mollification. “I’d be grateful for your company, Sofia,” she said, now a little more gently. “Pierre, perhaps you should show Natasha to the library while we’re out. I’m sure it would do her some good to think of something other than balls and dresses.”

“ _Marya_ ,” Natasha groaned.

“Or perhaps you two could find yourselves a Bible. It wouldn’t hurt you to do some revision.”

Pierre heard her and Sonya laughing as they showed themselves out to the front door.

Natasha flushed until her cheeks were almost the same pink as her dress. “I apologize for them.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” he said.

“I didn’t know you had a library.”

“We—I don’t anymore, actually. Hélène had it converted into a salon,” he admitted. “Most of the books are kept in my study.”

“Might I have a look?” she asked.

“Oh! Of course.”

Pierre led her down the hall to the last door on the right and flipped on the gas-lights. They sputtered momentarily, struggling against the darkness, and then bloomed with a warm yellow light.

Natasha’s eyes widened as she took in the room around them, this one the only spot in the house he had requested that Dunia leave alone. Pierre himself hadn’t done any cleaning either, and the result was a veritable tragedy, as if the Rumyantsev Museum had been crammed into twenty square feet and then shaken thoroughly from the outside. One of the candles on the bookshelf had been left to burn too long and seemed to have melted entirely into a puddle of wax. Papers lay scattered across the desk haphazardly, like birds strewn across a city street, and indented into its surface were the faint but distinct impressions of fingernails.

He didn’t want to remember where those had come from. He didn’t have to dwell on it for too long either, because Natasha had already made her way to the display cabinet and the standing-floor globe.

“My God, Pierre, this is marvelous!” she said, running her hands over North America, drawing a line from Beringland to New Denmark, then trailing across the Great North Ocean. She looked up just as Adrastos landed on Norroway. “Is this from your travels?”

“Travels?”

“You’ve been abroad, haven’t you? I know the Bezukhovs were known for their… _worldliness_.”

It wasn't the word she had probably meant, but she said it with such a sense of misplaced reverence and wonder that Pierre almost blushed.

“I did study in France for a few years,” he said. “It wasn’t all that exciting.”

Natasha turned to the desk next. “And what’s in here?”

Pierre shuffled a few reams of paper to hide the scratch marks, before he realized she had been referring to the drawer and not the tabletop. “Oh, just odds and ends. Hélène used to call it my trinket collection.”

Natasha tugged at the handle, and the drawer rattled open. She peered in as Pierre spouted off a list of its contents from memory.

A carved walrus tusk from Groenland, an Arabian silk robe he had never worn for fear of damaging it, a blue morpho butterfly petrified in electrum, a bronze astrolabe from Kamchatka, a paper fan from Cathay painted with watercolor dragons, and a Tatar ceremonial knife whose sheath had been carved with polar bears.

Natasha’s hands shot out, nimble and quick as a bird taking flight, and closed around the knife before Pierre could shut the drawer.

“Oh,” he said dumbly. “P-please be careful with that.”

She turned it over in her and unsheathed the blade, which made him wince. Adrastos landed at her wrist to have a closer look. “This is beautiful,” she said. “Where did you find it?”

“I didn’t find—well, I did technically, I suppose. My father left it behind when he passed. This was from the German Academy collection, I think. He used to fund their expeditions to the North.”

“It’s authentic?”

“From Tatary. Unless the German Academy has taken to dealing in counterfeits.”

“What is it for?”

At that, his stomach tightened. “Ceremonial purposes.”

“Well, obviously,” she said. “What sort of ceremony?”

Pierre swallowed and said, in an uneasy voice. “Trepanning.”

“Trepanning?”

“It’s…well, it’s a sort of procedure. In which a hole is drilled into the skull.”

Adrastos leapt for the bookshelf.

“Oh.” She set down the knife with haste. “Well, I can’t say I was expecting that.”

“Don’t tell Marya, would you? She’d have my head.”

Natasha smiled. Her teeth were perfect and white, save for a slight gap between the front two. “I daresay she’d trepan it.”

Pierre laughed as she closed the first drawer and moved on to the second. This time, she went for a bundled-up roll of knitted wool.

“What is this?” she asked, unfolding it.

“It’s a hat,” he said. “From the Andes. It’s called a chullo. I’ve no idea how my father got his hands on this, to be honest. He never had any interest in South America.”

Natasha had a mischievous gleam in her eyes. She gathered the tassels in her hands and held them open as if holding a handbag. “I think you should try it on.”

And without waiting for his response, she leaned up on her tiptoes and pulled it over his head. The wool crushed his curls and set his glasses askew and muffled his ears with fluff. Natasha dropped back to her heels and pressed a hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking.

She was about to laugh, he realized with a sinking heart. Just like Hélène had always laughed at him. Pierre the fool. Pierre the joke.

“This is silly,” he said.

“Of course it’s silly. But there’s nothing wrong with that. See?” Natasha snatched the hat and placed it on her own head. It sank down her face, almost over her eyes. Pierre was reminded of a little fledgling bird still covered in loose down.

“Now we’re both thoroughly ridiculous,” she said.

Pierre flushed, but his shame was cracking, and in less than five seconds it gave way to laughter.

“I really don’t know why I have this,” he said. “I wore it once. Hélène wouldn’t let me leave the house in it. She said I’d look like a lunatic.”

“I think it looks marvelous.”

“Thank you.”

“Is it a souvenir?”

“No, no, I’ve tried to make a habit of collecting books instead. Most of the artifacts were here when I arrived.”

“So are most of these books ones that you’ve brought home?”

“Only a few of them,” he said. He went to the bookshelf and pulled out a heavy, leather-bound tome with a gold-embossed spine. When he set it on the desk, it kicked up a cloud of dust. “This is one of my favorites.”

On its cover, printed in flaking gold text, read: _Studies in Metaphysics & Alethiometry_. Natasha opened to a double-page star map framed by astrological signs. Running along the bottom of the page was a line of thirty or so symbols—a compass, an owl, a baby, a mirror, a candle, a dagger, a crescent moon, and so on—but these looked as if they had been painted, not printed, and Pierre still had yet to figure out what, if anything, they stood for. The tassels on the chullo swished back and forth as she turned her head and asked, “What is it about?”

“Dæmons.”

At that, it was as if the room had been jolted with a strange anbaric sort of energy. Natasha’s eyes glittered with curiosity as she flipped through the table of contents, past the foreword, and then to the first chapter, skimming her eyes over the narrow text.

“How interesting,” she said.

Pierre’s heart gave a strange fluttering sensation. “You think so?”

“Of course! They’re such an important part of our lives but we never think of them. We never ask why they exist, what they are. It sort of makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Why they can change when we’re little but not when we’re grown.”

“Well,” Pierre said, fumbling his fingers along the rim of his spectacles, “I suppose that’s all a matter of Dust. That is, with a capital—”

“Dust?”

He ducked his head so low that his nose almost brushed against the page. “Yes, well, they’re properly called Rusakov particles, after the metaphysicist Boris Mikhailovitch Rusakov. They’re…well, we don’t understand it fully yet, _I_ don’t fully understand it yet—”

“What does it do?”

“I don’t know. Not for definite, at least. I’ve read a few things—”

“But what do you _think_?”

Pierre flushed. “Well, it’s in every person, and it follows our dæmons, and you can see it on silver-emulsion photograms but not with your eyes. It doesn’t settle on little children, not till they’re grown, and once it does—”

“Your dæmon settles,” Natasha finished.

“Exactly.”

“But _why_?”

Pierre shrugged. “Why does hair go grey with age? It’s just the way things are. The way we were made, if that particular dogma suits you, I suppose.”

Natasha pursed her lips, unconvinced. One of her hands drifted up to the wool tassel and worked it between her fingers. “But that’s not all there is to it, isn’t it? Or the Church wouldn’t be so worried about it.”

Pierre hesitated for a moment. He liked Natasha, yes, loved her even, but trust was a different matter altogether. Men had been imprisoned for far more innocuous things than this, and if her reverence during this morning’s service was anything to go by, she struck him as the religious sort.

But then he thought back to that cold, dark February night, the shivering girl in the doorway, the letter from the War Office, Natasha’s tearful confession. Was there really, he wondered, any reason not to trust her when she had already bared her secrets to him? Was it unfair of him to not reciprocate?

He felt a thin, delicate hand settle atop his.

“I know you have something to say,” said Natasha. “I’m a friend, Pierre. I won’t repeat anything you don’t want me to.”

“We’re not really supposed to be discussing this,” he said, not quite in protest.

“And I probably shouldn’t be in private conversation with an unmarried man either. What difference does it make?”

Pierre took in a fortifying breath, nodded, and said, “They believe that when Adam and Eve disobeyed God and ate the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, their defiance brought Dust into this world and made their dæmons settle, and it’s been making us sick ever since. That was Dust that made them disobey. So they think it’s sinful, that once it settles on children, it’ll corrupt them, make them give in to wicked temptations. And they think if they cut it out—the Dust, that is—that it’ll redeem humanity. That it’ll make us as pure as on the first day of Creation.”

Natasha furrowed her brow. Her mouth hung open in a displeased ‘o’.

“It’s nonsense,” he said quickly. “They’ve tried it in Siberia to reform criminals, and all they’re left with is husks.”

“Husks?”

“Lifeless beings. They blink and they breathe, but they don’t have thoughts or feelings.”

“So you can live without your dæmon? If it’s been severed?”

Khione flinched.

“I don’t think so,” said Pierre. “Not if it’s done crudely. From what I’ve read, the shock usually kills. But even then, if you survive that, it’s not so much living as existing.”

Natasha nodded and pressed one hand to her lips. She looked more deep in thought than horrified, which was surprise enough. “Once when I was little, Adrastos tried flying away off a balcony. Petya was flying a kite in the garden and he wanted to follow it. He became a sparrow and took off. But I couldn’t go with him, of course. It was alright for a few seconds, and I leaned after him as far as I could go, but then I felt the most awful pain.”

“I know,” said Pierre. “I tried it once too.”

“But it wasn’t purely physical. I felt this strange deep sadness, like I had just lost my dearest friend. Or like a part of my soul had been ripped away.”

“We need them. They’re what make us who we are.”

Natasha’s face grew solemn. There was something almost guilty in her voice when she spoke next. “Is that why it feels so wrong to touch someone else’s, then?”

Pierre stiffened in mortification. A buzzing warmth overswept him, a quickening of the pulse, a rush of opium, the sensation of someone’s heart beating beneath his hand. Just as quickly, he pushed the thoughts away, quashed them into the deepest, darkest corner of his mind, and tried to block out the ringing in his ears and the echoes of Hélène screaming and the feeling that he had ruined something beyond forgiveness.

“I—well—I don’t know if there’s any way of knowing that,” he said carefully.

Natasha looked as if she had misspoken or let something slip she shouldn’t have. “Well, of course there isn’t. It’s taboo.”

“Yes, yes.”

“But in theory—”

“I don’t know. I’ve read of it, but—”

“It’s supposed to be sinful, isn’t it?” she pressed on. “But if—if this Dust is as you say it is—”

“The Church is wrong,” he said boldly.

Natasha sucked in a sharp breath. “You really think so?”

“Yes. I do.”

“‘In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground,” Natasha said slowly, “for out of it wast thou taken, for Dust thou art, and unto Dust shalt thou return’.”

“Genesis three nineteen.”

“So, we’re all children of Dust,” she said. “And then we die, and we go back to Dust.”

“Or to Heaven,” Pierre offered.

Natasha’s coffee-black eyes bored into his. “But that’s only what the Church says, isn’t it? They’re wrong about Dust and dæmons. What if they’re wrong about Heaven as well? What if there’s nothing after this?”

It was little over a month ago now that, staring down an empty bottle of vodka, he had driven himself half-mad over that very question. How often had he contemplated death? How genuinely had he wanted it? Had he thought at all about the possibility of what lay after, or had he only wanted reprieve from his existence, pitiful and repetitive as it was?

“I don’t know,” he said quietly.

“I used to think I knew. I used to think Heaven was like a city in the sky full of angels and light. But I just don’t know anymore.” She inhaled slowly, shakily, weariness clouding her face. “Pierre, where do you think Andrei is now?”

Pierre’s heart felt as if it were being squeezed by invisible hands. Andrei. He had almost forgotten just how much thinking of him hurt. It burned coldly now again, something deep and inextricable that had settled into his bones, as if Khione were constantly on the verge of pulling away from him.

“I’d like to think it was peaceful, whatever happened to him,” he said finally. “I’ve always imagined it to be a little bit like going to sleep.”

“Sleep,” Natasha said, mulling the word over in her mouth. “Yes, I’d like to think that too.”

“Why don’t you do some reading? Research for yourself, form your own opinions.” Pierre pushed the book into her hands. “Take this. All it’s doing here is gathering dust. Normal dust, I mean, not the other kind.”

“Oh, Pierre, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Nonsense! Consider it a loan, if you’d like. I want to talk about it with you.”

Natasha held the book to her chest, frowning. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. But you mustn’t let anyone see it. Certainly not Marya. Or she’ll trepan me.”

“I won’t, I promise. I’ll return it next week.”

“You won't finish that in a week, trust me. Take as long as you need. And we’ll discuss it together when we see each other next.”

“I’d like that very much.”

Pierre couldn’t help the blush that crept up the back of his neck. “As would I.”

And then Natasha did something unbelievable. Boldly, with no apparent hesitation, she leaned up on her toes and kissed his cheek. Her lips were soft as an angel’s. Pierre held still as she sank back to her heels, looking for all the world as if she had just realized something startling.

“Thank you,” she said, touching his hand.

Adrastos fluttered up to the ceiling and then landed on Khione’s head. She froze perfectly still for fear of dislodging him and crossed her eyes trying to look up at him.

Pierre tried to stammer out something in response to that, but words escaped him, and all he could think of was the beautiful darkness of her eyes and the sudden burst of warmth that had run through him as their dæmons touched.

“We should probably see if we can find a Bible now,” Natasha murmured, tugging off the chullo. “See if we can get you up to speed on your prayers. Or Marya might just trepan us both.”


	19. The Saint Petersburg Reunion Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hélène makes a miscalculation and Anatole encounters a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love when the plot picks up again! 
> 
> Hélène's necklace is the choker that Satine wears in the El Tango Roxanne scene in Moulin Rouge (the movie!)
> 
> Sadly, this plot is not canon. We apologize, but then again, when has it ever been?
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter contains some brief mentions of child abuse, although nothing graphic.

Vasily Kuragin was going to drive Hélène mad.

She had resisted the whole Lavrov arrangement at first, bitterly, sullenly, defiantly, with more fury than she had ever put into a disagreement with Vasily, as much as she had over her engagement with Pierre.

It had gotten her nowhere then. It hadn’t done her any good now either.

She did love Vasily, in her own confused, uncomfortable way, but she feared him a great deal more. Adoration and revulsion had tangled together in her head like two frayed threads. She envied Anatole, who didn’t have room in him to hold anything more towards their father than terrified deference. And for all his cruelty, Vasily left Anatole alone for the most part. There was clearly something to be said for being the least-favored child.

As for Hélène, all it had taken to make her agree to this charade was a miserable teatime conversation with Anna Pavlovna Scherer, a few nights of stewing in her room, and the horrible, sinking realization that she had nowhere else to go.

“Perhaps it won’t be so bad this time,” said Dahanian, from beneath the vanity.

Hélène lightly ran her nails over her opposite palm, a nervous tic she must have developed in the past hour. Her reflection in the mirror glowered back at her, hair freshly-washed and pinned atop her head, eyes delicately lined with kohl, cheeks blushed with rouge. And that horrid necklace Vasily had given her, too heavy around her throat. She didn’t want to think about that now.

“That’s a load of shit and you know it,” she snapped.

“You don’t know,” he said stubbornly. “Who knows if anything will even come of tonight?”

An engagement would, if Vasily had his way. Hélène shuddered at the thought.

“Perhaps it won’t,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean he’ll stop trying.”

Dahanian had just opened his mouth to respond when the bedroom door creaked open.

Hélène rose to her feet as Anna Pavlovna Scherer stepped in, smelling of lilac perfume, draped in lavender silk that clashed horrendously with the orange of her dæmon’s wings. Hélène supposed she could hardly fault her for what was beyond her control, but the impulse was strong, almost as strong as the perfume. That aside, she did look quite nice. Like a younger, slimmer version of Aline. The more Hélène looked, the more she saw the resemblance. Their hair was almost the same shade of blonde, the build of their frames equally as slight, the placement of their features delicate and birdlike.

The eyes were what broke the illusion. Aline’s were blue, blue like Anatole’s, blue like cornflowers. Anna’s were grey as gunmetal. Just as cold, too.

“Madame Scherer,” said Hélène. “How lovely to see you.”

Anna laughed and waved her down with a dismissive hand. “There’s no need for such formality, Elena, dear. We’re old friends, you and I, aren’t we?”

Those exact words, which Hélène had spoken to Natasha Rostova not all that long ago and with just as little sincerity, stung like a slap to the face.

“You look even lovelier than you did when you were married. Adversity has suited you wonderfully.”

“You’re too kind,” she said.

Anna sighed heavily as she swept forwards. The silk of her skirt billowed out as if blown by the wind. “If only hardship was as kind to all of us. You’ve no idea, the ordeal I’ve just put myself through. I’ve taken Princess Bolkonskaya on as my ward. Honestly, Elena, I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a more unfortunate creature. But it’s our lot in life, isn’t it? To take care of the less fortunate out of the goodness of our Christian hearts.”

She smiled cloyingly. Hélène fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Of course. You’re too good, Anna Pavlovna.”

“I think the glamour of the city has overwhelmed the dear thing. But she should be back in that gloomy manor soon enough.”

“Oh?”

“I have a feeling her luck is about to change. You’ll see soon enough, anyhow. And you’re meeting your own beau tonight! You must be so excited.”

“Yes, I suppose I must be,” she said vaguely.

Dahanian snorted.

Anna drifted to the chair where Hélène was sitting and stood behind her, hands clasped around the backrest. Quiet laughter gleamed in her eyes. “I’ve always thought that green was ravishing on you,” she said. “Your hair is far too severe though, darling. You ought to let it down.”

“I’m too old to wear my hair down,” said Hélène.

“Ah, but we don’t want to convey the wrong idea to Monsieur Lavrov. Only deflowered women wear their hair up.”

Hélène, having nothing to say in defense of herself, grimaced. Anna began to yank the pins out of her hair, perhaps a shade more brusquely than necessary.

“A terrible thing, to be trapped in a loveless marriage,” she continued. “I’m sure you handled it as best you could, but we all have our needs.”

Hélène winced as a pin caught on a curl and refused to give. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Anna clucked and picked up a hairbrush. Hélène saw her rolling her eyes in the mirror’s reflection as she took to her hair. “We all want love, dearest. Companionship. Romance. If you were my daughter, I would have found you someone better than that miserable hermit. An infantry captain, perhaps. Or a man of gentle breeding.” She tucked one hand under Hélène’s chin, tilting it upright. “But what do I know? An old, unmarried woman like me?

“Yes, well, at least I had Anatole to keep my company,” she said coolly.

“I’m sure having him around must have made your marriage much more tolerable.” And then, as if they were sharing an inside joke: “One does what one must to survive these things, darling. Isn’t that so?”

In an ideal world, Hélène would have struck her square across the face for even suggesting such a thing. Every rumor she had ever instigated, every insinuation she had ever uttered, and now she had the nerve to pry for more. Tell me all your secrets, Hélène, she was practically begging. The gossip in Petersburg is running dry, and you’re next on the menu.

“Yes,” she said, with great restraint, “he was a good houseguest. I fear I would have been dreadfully lonely without him.”

“And what of your soldier from the opera? Captain Dolokhov? Won’t you miss him terribly?”

“He’s in Petersburg to see family.”

“How charming. You two must be in correspondence, no?”

“Of course. We are acquaintances, after all.”

Anna’s eyes glittered mischievously. “Only acquaintances?”

Hélène’s lip twitched, though she tried to hide it. She felt Dahanian bristling at her feet and folded her hands in her lap to keep him from climbing onto the chair with her. “Yes.”

Anna set the brush aside. The look on her face was nothing short of wicked. “Oh, darling, you don’t need to be so stiff around me. You have eyes. You’re allowed to look. And the Captain is so very handsome. Don’t you agree?”

“I really couldn’t say,” Hélène drawled. “After all, I was married when we met.”

Anna pressed on as if she hadn’t even said a thing at all. “And so dashing! Everyone’s heard of his exploits in the Caucasus. It’s a shame your father didn’t pair you with a man like him to begin with. Bold. Rugged. _Dashing_. You need a little excitement in your life, a sophisticated woman like you. We all do.”

Hélène gave her a wooden smile. “Not that sort of excitement.”

Anna laughed and fiddled with one of Hélène’s curls, pulling it to rest on her cheekbone. “You truly are your father’s daughter. So secretive.” She leaned in, smirking. “I promise, darling, you can tell me anything. It’ll be our little secret.”

What Hélène said next was spoken without a moment’s hesitation or a shred of sense, but with the full force of her irritation.

“I assure you, Anna, my relationship to Captain Dolokhov is the same as his to Anatole.”

Anna’s eyebrows shot up. Hélène closed her mouth, heart sinking to the pit of her stomach as Anna’s expression shifted from shock to self-satisfaction.

She shouldn’t have said that. She _really_ shouldn’t have said that.

Anna’s fingers went back to fiddling with the curls framing Hélène’s cheeks and forehead. Hélène turned to the mirror, fighting to keep her hands from clenching into fists, and felt Dahanian’s fur standing on end against her leg as if it had just been brushed the wrong way.

“How very sweet,” Anna said. Her dæmon fluttered to rest at her wrist.

“Never mind that,” Hélène said quickly, face burning, eager to distract. “Tell me, Annette, what will Princess Bolkonskaya be wearing this evening?”

* * *

 

One dreary Christmas evening when Anatole was ten or so, he and Hélène and Ippolit had snuck a bottle of wine from the kitchens and stolen away to the cellar to drink it where they wouldn’t be found. When they had all gotten thoroughly drunk, Danali and Dahanian had made a game to see who could become the ugliest possible creature, and they had spent the evening giggling uproariously and shifting, each form more absurd than the last. Ilaria, who then had settled some years before as an ocelot, had watched the whole thing in poorly-concealed envy.

Danali had won in the end with her impression of a naked mole rat.

As things stood, about halfway through the flask of vodka Anatole had stashed in his pocket, he and Danali were rapidly approaching that same level of drunkenness. It wasn’t as nice as the wine had been, but if he had to suffer through the entirety of this soirée, which was looking increasingly likely, then there wasn’t a hope in hell he was doing it sober.

Danali, who was already struggling to keep her balance at his shoulder, giggled and whispered, “Did you see your father in that waistcoat?”

Anatole snorted. He had, before Vasily had gone off to formally greet the guests. “Looking a little soft around the middle these days, isn’t he? I think Bezukhov’s started a trend.”

Danali nudged the flask with the tip of her nose. “That’ll be you in a few years if you keep this up.”

Anatole flicked her upside the head. “Don’t be rude.”

“Can’t we leave yet?”

“We should wait for Lena.”

Danali said something irate under her breath and scrambled down his shirt to nestle in his pocket. “We’ll be waiting till we’re dead.”

“Shouldn’t be too far off, that. Not if I can’t track down another bottle.”

Danali giggled again.

Anatole leaned back against the stairs, propping himself up on his elbows. The marble didn’t exactly make for a comfy seat, and his arse was slowly going numb, but he wasn’t entirely sure he trusted his balance enough to make the trek across the hall to the chaise. Even if the back foyer was cold, the vodka burning in his chest was enough to keep him warm. This would do for now.

“What do you suppose the odds are that she doesn’t come?” he asked.

“Knowing your father?” said Danali. “Slim.”

“Two words I wouldn’t put together in the same sentence.”

“Got off easy this time, didn’t we?”

Anatole pursed his lips at that. He had been dodging suitors more or less since his eighteenth birthday, a slew of boring noblewomen, most of them nameless and all of them intolerably unappealing, and nothing had stuck yet. Things couldn’t have changed that much.

But these weren’t thoughts he needed to think right now. He considered the flask thoughtfully, weighing it in his hands, and was delighted to realize that he still had at least a few mouthfuls left.

“Easy now,” said Danali, from his pocket.

“Hush, you,” he said, and raised it to his lips again.

Further down the hall he saw a glint of light, like a shard of ice. But as it neared, he saw that it was only the chain of diamonds hanging from Hélène’s neck. An ugly one, at that, more a collar than a piece of jewelry. Certainly not something she would’ve picked out for herself. Between her and Dahanian, he would’ve been hard-pressed to say who seemed in a fouler mood.

Anatole quickly pocketed the flask. If she saw him drinking, he’d be asked to share, and his generosity was wearing thin enough as things stood.

“Lovely to see you, Lena,” he said, straightening his spine until he heard it crack. “You look beautiful this evening.”

The compliment was genuine, despite the sarcasm in his tone. Hélène was wearing her hair down, dark curls combed and coiffed into lacquered perfection, and her dress was green silk—sophisticated enough, he supposed, but a tad more modest than her usual taste would have suggested.

The necklace was horrendous, though. Nothing could rectify that.

“I haven’t seen you looking so proper in years,” he added.

“And I haven’t seen you look so drab since Mama used to dress you in those sailor suits,” she said flatly.

Anatole brushed off the insult without missing a beat. “Where did you find that marvelous necklace?”

“Papa gave it to me,” she said. “And Scherer talked me into wearing it.”

“Charming. I’ve been thinking of getting one for myself. Something a little more ostentatious, you know? Just to dress my appearance up a little.”

When that didn’t even get him a smile, he pantomimed being throttled by his shirt collar. Hélène smacked his shoulder and snapped, “Stop that!”

He lowered his hands. “I thought it was funny.”

“It isn’t.”

“It was only a joke, Lena.”

She shook her head and turned away. “It’s too soon to joke about it.”

Oh. _Oh_.

That was stupid of him.

“I didn’t mean—” he began.

“Forget it.”

Anatole sighed and crossed his legs. Had he felt anything close to guilt, he was too drunk to properly realize it, and he had never been any good at carrying any one emotion for too long.

“Hard to believe we’re back, isn’t it?” he said.

Hélène straightened her skirts and sat down next to him on the bottom step, which he took as a peace offering, and scooted over to make room for her. Dahanian laid his head in her lap. “This is all so unfair. I look ridiculous.”

“Ah, well. We all have to make fools out of ourselves at some point. How do I look?”

Out of the corner of her mouth: “Navy isn’t your color.”

A shrug. “Neither was virginal white. I thought this would be more fitting.”

“Don’t let Mama hear you say that.”

“She doesn’t want to marry me off, you know. I might still get out of this one. Can’t say the same of you.”

“Shut your damn mouth.”

He leaned over, gesturing dramatically with one hand, and said, “I can already picture your Monsieur Lavrov. Bald. Or balding, at least. A little potbelly. A thinning goatee. And he must be old, if you’re the second wife. Don’t look so sullen, Lena. The sooner he kicks the bucket, the sooner he leaves you with his inheritance.”

Dahanian’s nose twitched.

“You can’t get out of this forever, you know,” Hélène said.

“Maybe not,” he conceded. “But Mama wouldn’t let him make me a bad match.”

Hélène folded her hands over her knee. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Tolya. I heard that Papa wanted to formally introduce you to Marya Dmitrievna.”

Anatole’s gut dropped, his arm with it. _Le terrible dragon_ , who kept a loaded revolver in her dresser, whose dæmon had once eyed Danali with such open, murderous contempt that she had hidden in his pocket for a full week afterwards, whose goddaughter he had seduced and broken the taboo with and frightened off all in the same night.

Then Hélene’s face cracked into a grin, and Anatole, still slightly nauseous with dread and miffed that he had been had, ran a hand through his hair and said, “Don’t joke like that.”

“You know,” she continued, a decidedly malicious slant to her smirk now, “I hear Princess Bolkonskaya is in Petersburg. I don’t think she’s married yet either.”

This, somehow, wasn’t much better. He had met the Princess during the Easter Divine Liturgy, when he was ten and she fourteen or fifteen or so with a face full of pimples and a dowdy grey dress buttoned up to her chin. _Princess Churchmouse_ , he had called her, and that unfortunate nickname had earned him a slap so hard he had had to lie down for almost half an hour.

But the worst thing was that Hélène didn’t sound entirely like she was joking this time.

Anatole made a dead, hollow sound in the back of his throat that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Oh, you’re funny, Lena. Princess Churchmouse. _Que Dieu nous aide_. I’d sooner lop off my own leg.”

“She’s wealthy enough. And you’re not exactly precious goods anymore, Toto.”

He sniffed haughtily. “Just because Papa won’t buy me diamonds doesn’t mean I’m not ‘precious goods’.”

Hélène narrowed her eyes suddenly. “You’ve been drinking.”

Anatole sighed, already reaching into his pocket. “What gave it away?”

“That daft look on your face. Give it here.”

“I hope you realize how charitable this is of me.” She snatched it out of his hands before he could fully untwist the stopper. “Don’t be greedy! I didn’t expect to be sharing.”

“If Papa catches you—”

“He won’t. He won’t care enough to check on me.”

Hélène raised an eyebrow as she took a long drink. When she was done, she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and said, “I wouldn’t be so sure of that. He’s in a bit of a mood today.”

“And Russia is cold in winter.”

Hélène sighed and handed back the flask. “Just don’t provoke him.”

“No promises, sweet sister.”

Anatole had just tipped the flask back again when Hélène stomped on his foot, hard. The vodka caught in his throat with a dry burn. He began to choke.

“Lena—” he wheezed.

“It’s Papa,” Hélène hissed.

Anatole’s eyes shot to the top of the stairwell, where Asteria stood, tawny and yellow-eyed and terrifying. The vodka threatened to make a reappearance. He beat his palm against his chest and tried to cover his coughing with his sleeve as he slipped the flask into his pocket and hauled himself to his feet.

“Ah, there you two are,” said Vasily, appearing in the stairwell behind Asteria.

The waistcoat did not look any less unflattering upon a second look. His jacket was imperial green, pinned with more medals than Anatole suspected was warranted by a desk job, but beneath it the breadth of his shoulders was unmistakable. His features were the same as Ippolit’s—dark and stern, a Roman nose and a proud, heavy brow, if a little more gracefully-arranged than Anatole had ever seen in his brother—but the frame was entirely wrong. Ippolit was long and lithe, like Anatole himself; Vasily was built like a foot soldier.

And no less fearsome.

“Hello, Papa,” said Hélène.

“Papa,” Anatole said, a moment later, throat scalding.

Vasily descended the stairs with slow, smooth steps, and kissed Hélène’s cheek. “Elena, _ma fille chérie_ , you look absolutely radiant.”

“ _Merci_.”

“Ah, remember, darling, no French.”

Hélène’s smile wilted. When it returned, it was even more plainly false than it had been before. “Of course,” she said.

“Go and find your mother. She’s waiting in the front foyer with the butler. I’d like to have a word with Anatole.”

Anatole’s breath stilled. The leftover ghost of the vodka burned again in his throat. Hélène caught his eye and gave him what he supposed was meant to be a reassuring smile. Her hand squeezed his, three quick pulses in rapid succession.

“Is there something the matter, Papa?” she asked.

“Of course not, _mon ange_. Run along now. I won’t be a moment.”

Hélène looked uncertain, but picked up her skirts and took off down the hall. Anatole watched her go trying, in vain, to swallow his nerves.

“Anatole,” came the stern voice of his father.

Anatole’s head snapped to the side.

Vasily looked even more disappointed than usual, which was to say, tremendously. “What in God’s name have you done with your hair?”

Anatole frowned. “I haven’t done anything to it.”

Asteria turned her cold yellow gaze on him. Anatole lowered his eyes to the floor. He heard Vasily’s footsteps circling, then felt a hand under his chin, tilting it upright. His eyes were dark as Hélène’s, unreadable as Hélène’s, but they held none of her warmth.

Anatole shivered as if chilled.

“It looks as if you’ve just woken up,” Vasily said finally.

“I didn’t—”

“You look good otherwise.”

Anatole was so stunned by the fact that his father had just complimented him that he hardly registered as Vasily ran his hands through his hair, flattening it down into something mildly less disastrous.

“It’ll have to do,” Vasily clucked. “It’s important that you make a good impression tonight. Princess Bolkonskaya is very eager to—”

Anatole was grateful that he had no vodka left only for the fact that he would have choked on it. “Princess _Bolkonskaya_?”

“Is there an issue with Princess Bolkonskaya?” said Vasily coldly.

Anatole remembered Easter, _Princess Churchmouse_ , the sting of Vasily’s palm. Well, he thought bitterly, it did make sense—with the death of Nikolai Bolkonsky and no male heirs, Princess Mary stood to inherit a sizeable fortune.

But if the sum total of three years of wedded life for Hélène was a half-throttled brother, a sprained wrist, and three train tickets from Moscow to Saint Petersburg, Anatole shuddered to imagine what would become of a marriage to Mary Bolkonskaya. The dowry, perhaps. And knowing his luck, which had gone to shit as of recent, frostbite from the Bald Hills.

Hélène hadn’t been joking. Damn her.

“No, sir,” he said.

“I want you to think long and hard before you say anything foolish,” Vasily continued. “The Princess is still mourning her father and her brother. I advise you to take that into consideration when speaking with her.”

“Brother?”

“Andrei Nikolayevich. You’ve met him before.”

It took Anatole’s vodka-addled mind a few seconds too long to piece that together. Andrei Bolkonsky. Dead Andrei Bolkonsky. Stern, uppity, aloof Andrei Bolkonsky. The one with the crazy father. The one who had gone off to war and left his fiancée behind.

His fiancée, Natasha Rostova.

 _Fuck_ , he thought, and stopped his tongue just short of following through.

“Oh,” he said eloquently instead.

“This time has been difficult enough for her without you—have you been _drinking_?”

Anatole’s feet froze to the floor, eyes wide. “No,” he said on instinct.

The hand on his arm tightened. “Don’t lie to me, young man.”

“It was only a little.”

Vasily cuffed him upside the head with his free hand. “Do you want the Princess to think I’d give her a drunkard for a husband?”

“No, sir.”

“If I catch you with so much as of a glass of champagne…”

Vasily never did finish his sentence, but Asteria gave a low growl, eyes narrowed, lips curled back in a displeased grimace, and that was answer enough.

Anatole swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“Charm her tonight. This is your last chance. Understood?”

He nodded stiffly, his neck still smarting from the blow.

“You have a tongue, young man,” snapped Vasily. “Answer me when I speak to you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Still holding him by the crook of his elbow, Vasily led Anatole through the foyer door and into the ballroom.

The light was blinding. Anatole’s head, already clouded with vodka, throbbed in protest. Every surface gleamed with a burnished rosy glow, the sunset bottled in a wide, glass-windowed room and bubbling with champagne. He smelled a sea of perfume, cigar smoke, intoxicating whiffs of chocolate and coffee and roast pork from the kitchen.

And there, in the corner, a short blonde woman in lavender silk standing beside a taller girl dressed in blue. Madame Scherer. And, presumably, Princess Mary. Anatole had half a mind to dig in his heels as they neared.

“Annette,” Vasily said, releasing Anatole’s arm. “Such a pleasure to see you.”

Madame Scherer looked as irritatingly composed and smug as ever. It took Anatole a moment to see Parvanè, small as he was, but there he was, hiding in her hair, an ornamental orange-and-black flower. “The pleasure is all mine, Vaska,” she purred.

Another unfortunate childhood nickname sprang to mind: _Horseface_. This one he hadn’t had the sense to say out of earshot either.

Vasily prodded him forwards with a sharp jab between the shoulders. “Don’t be impolite, Anatole.”

“Madame Scherer,” he said, bowing his head.

Madame Scherer fluttered her fan with a condescending look, as if he were four instead of twenty-four, and said, “My, just look at you, Tolenka. Such a handsome young man.”

Anatole bristled at the diminutive. “You haven’t changed a bit,” he said.

“I was visiting Moscow but a few months ago. You never even said hello to me!”

“My apologies, Madame,” he said. “Had there been an opportunity, I certainly would have.”

There was a peculiar gleam in her eye as she responded, “I attended a function at your sister’s house. Though I suppose you were occupied.”

Anatole thought of Natasha again. His stomach gave an uneasy lurch.

“You look lovely, Princess,” Vasily said smoothly, turning to Princess Mary, who had been so still and silent that Anatole had almost forgotten about her entirely. “Allow me to present my son.”

Mary shrank in on herself. She was really a plain-looking thing, he mused grimly. Her thin lips were downturned in what was seemingly an unintentional frown, and in the awful powder blue of her dress, her skin was deathly pale. It looked as if Madame Scherer had tried to curl her hair, but the ringlets were limp and already falling out.

Her eyes were quite pretty, though. A stormy grey, nearly silver, fringed by long, pale lashes. It almost didn’t seem right that something so lovely should be wasted on such a dull creature.

And that dæmon of hers.

A shrew. A same-sex dæmon. He hadn’t seen one of those in a while.

Madame Scherer had noticed him staring. He quickly averted his eyes and decided to reserve the thought for when he had sobered up.

“Princess,” he said, bowing fluidly, and kissed her hand. It felt like kissing a statue.

“Please, call me Mary,” she said.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said. “May I have this dance?”

With obvious hesitance, Mary laid her hands on his shoulders. One almost brushed against Danali. Anatole stiffened in horror at the intrusion; Mary drew back in mortification.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I—I never meant—”

“It’s fine,” Anatole said tightly, taking her hand in his. Danali’s fur stood on end as she crawled into his pocket to sulk. Already, the orchestra was mid-way through its waltz, but the thought of standing still and exchanging more uncomfortable pleasantries was unbearable.

At last, Madame Scherer and Vasily must have been satisfied that the two of them wouldn’t bolt for the doors the second they laid their eyes elsewhere, because they skirted off to the other end of the ballroom to leave them in peace.

“How are you enjoying Petersburg?” Anatole asked, desperate to fill the silence.

Mary gave a feeble smile. “Oh, it’s lovely. I haven’t seen it in such a long time. I didn’t remember it being so beautiful.”

He silently prayed that that wasn’t the only thing she didn’t remember of Petersburg.

“Yes,” he said vaguely, “it is quite a beautiful city. Nicer than Moscow.

“Yes,” she said, nodding in agreement. “Much nicer than Moscow.”

Anatole suppressed a frustrated sigh. It was like trying to make small talk with a brick wall. If he had been dancing with someone like Madame Scherer, the conversation would have been interesting, if only for the insults. It certainly would have been better than this.

Sullenly, he remembered that he did have to find some way to charm her, even if she couldn’t carry a conversation. Was this how Hélène had felt, he wondered, in her courtship with Pierre? The unwilling leading the blind, deaf, and dumb?

“You look lovely this evening, Princess,” he said, uninspired.

Mary’s eyes widened. Her pale face flushed. “You’re beautiful,” she blurted out.

Anatole raised an eyebrow. Less in surprise of what she had said—God knew he had heard it enough—and more of her tone, which would have sounded more appropriate describing an oil painting or a marble statue.

“Thank you?” he said.

Mary clearly regretted her choice of words. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to offend. If that offended you, I mean. I’m just…inexperienced in these affairs. Papa never allowed suitors to come by the house. He used the frighten them off, actually, when he had his fits. Nikolai Ilyich called by last year to visit, and Papa came into the parlor in his underthings screaming about the war and threatened him with his rifle till he ran.”

This wasn’t what he had meant by _interesting conversation_.

“Oh,” said Anatole, thoroughly uncomfortable.

Thankfully, Mary had nothing more to say to that. The silence set in again, even more desperately awkward than before.

Finally, Anatole cleared his throat. “You know, Princess,” he said carefully, “I understand that you might feel apprehensive about this arrangement.”

Mary raised her eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”

“Well, you’re not exactly a debutante anymore, are you?”

Mary’s eyes darted to the side of the room, where Madame Scherer was standing, and just as quickly, back to him. She pressed her lips together tightly. “It’s alright. It doesn’t bother me, honestly.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No.” Her cheeks flushed pink. “Does it bother you?”

“I can’t say I was thrilled about it.”

“Oh.”

“How old are you, again?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Ah. A little…erm…close to the cut, isn’t it?”

Mary’s face reddened further. “I suppose I should consider myself lucky, then. That Madame Scherer was able to arrange our meeting. She’s told me a lot about you.”

“What has she told you?”

“That you were an accomplished musician. And a fine dancer. And very handsome.”

“That was kind of her,” he said blandly.

She seemed hesitant to ask. “What did your father tell you about me?”

“Nothing.”

Mary looked utterly crestfallen. Her dæmon’s whiskers drooped. “Oh.”

They went back to dancing in silence. Anatole almost stumbled over his own feet as they rounded the corner. He was a bit tipsier than he had realized. Much tipsier, in fact. The ecossaise had already ended, but the room was still spinning in slow, teetering circles, and he could feel an oncoming headache pounding at his temples. And Mary was still clinging to him, although the space between them was slowly growing larger, and with every clumsy off-beat step they took, he came closer and closer to forgetting the whole thing and sprinting away.

But then, over her shoulder he caught another glimpse of Madame Scherer’s steely eyes and sighed inwardly, resigning himself to Mary’s company.

This was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you like our work, we'd love it if you dropped kudos or a comment!


	20. La Venise du Nord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ball continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another double post day! We live for that sweet, sweet Kuragin fam drama 
> 
> Please be advised that this chapter contains references to period-typical homophobia. 
> 
> Also worth mentioning that the question of what dæmon's genders represent is kind of left open in the source material we're drawing from. Mary's dæmon being female is not meant to comment on her sexuality or gender identity. We just thought it would be a fun detail to play with. In this 'verse, it's kind of meant to be a random thing that just kind of happens sometimes, for no discernible reason, but with some stigma attached to it.
> 
> That being said, Mary is gay as hell and also we love her.

They didn’t make ballrooms like this in Moscow.

Hélène’s peripheral vision swam with burnished gold and flickering candle light and swaths of color—emerald, ruby, violet and royal blue. At her side, Dahanian gleamed silver, bright as a torch. She heard laughter, champagne glasses clinking together, the swell of violins, the countermelody of violas, the steady one-two-three of plucked bass, rhythmic as the lull of the tide.

Every sensation seemed magnified, none more so than the feel of her father’s hand, cold and firm against the small of her back.

A good head or so taller than her, Vasily had to bend almost in half if he wanted to whisper in her ear, which he had been doing since they had started across the floor together. In one breath, he paused to greet Princess Mamontova, and then resumed his lecture as if it had never stopped at all:

“Monsieur Lavrov lives in the Nevsky Prospekt, so I expect he’ll be calling on you later in the week to visit if all goes well this evening. Remember, there’s no need to be nervous. You’ve done this before.”

Hélène wrinkled her nose. There hadn’t been much to _do_ , not with Pierre, at least, who had been so stupidly besotted by a pretty smile and a few charming words here and there that she had had him trailing after her like a dog in one dance.

“He’s a politician, so he’ll enjoy your conversation,” Vasily continued. “Just be sure to entertain him. No talk of France or the war. We don’t want you to embarrass yourself.”

“I know,” she said.

“It’s been a long while since he’s been out. His wife passed only recently. Be sensitive.”

“I know,” she repeated, a little testily.

Asteria’s yellow eyes glinted, as if in warning, though it could just as easily have been the reflection of the chandelier.

“Tone, darling,” said Vasily.

Hélène closed her mouth.

Vasily led her to the foot of the staircase, where a circle of velvet settees had been arranged around a table of wine glasses and ashtrays. On the sofa nearest to them sat a uniformed man deep in conversation with his dog-dæmon, his right leg propped on the ottoman at a curious angle. When Vasily cleared his throat, he turned his head to them and slowly, with evident pain, rose to his feet.

Hélène blinked, temporarily stunned.

She had expected someone old and stern, jaded and grizzled. But that wasn’t Sergei Mikhailovich Lavrov at all. Far from old and stern, he was _handsome_. His eyes were a warm brown, deeply-set, and his lovely thin face was framed with shoulder-length dark hair and a neatly-trimmed beard. There was something militaristic in the way he carried himself—shoulders back, head held high, a pointed favorance of his left leg. An old war injury, perhaps. At his side stood a sleek Doberman with her ears pointed forwards, watchful and alert. The whole affair gave off the distinct impression of elegance and charm, something kind, even.

Anatole was going to hate her.

“It’s good to see you again, Sergei Mikhailovich,” Vasily said, shaking Sergei’s hand. “Thank you for coming to our little gathering.”

“I believe I should be the one thanking you, Vasily Sergeivich,” Sergei replied, smooth and sweet as honey.

Christ, even his voice was beautiful.

“This is my daughter Elena,” said Vasily. “She’s been so anxious to meet you.”

Sergei bowed his head and kissed her hand. His skin was warm and soft against hers. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Elena Vasilyevna.”

Hélène dipped into a curtsy. “Likewise, Sergei Mikhailovich.”

“I’m honored we could pull you away for an evening,” said Vasily. “I’m sure your work has kept you occupied.”

“Yes, it’s been quite stressful these past few weeks,” Sergei admitted. Hélène noticed that he had angled himself to face her and not just Vasily as he spoke. “What with the state of national affairs. I’m sure you understand.”

Vasily tutted. “How perfectly terrible.”

Hélène thought back to the rail station, the swarm of soldiers, Fedya’s cryptic remarks. She ran her eyes over the medals pinned to Sergei’s olive-green jacket. In the center of his breast pocket was the largest, a golden star struck through by a cross, trailing a delicate ribbon striped in red, blue, and white. Important-looking. But unreadable all the same.

Vasily kissed her cheek and said, “Alright, darling. I’ll leave you two to acquaint yourselves.”

Sergei offered her his hand as Vasily and Asteria drifted off to greet the other guests. “May I have this dance?”

Hélène flashed him a bright grin and placed her hand in his. “Of course.”

Sergei led her out to the floor with a stiff gait. A solitary flaw. Or the only one she had noticed thus far. That was tolerable. More than tolerable, in fact.

“How are you finding Petersburg?” he asked as they took their positions for the waltz.

He danced stiffly too. It looked as if his right knee had locked uncomfortably, or if he were afraid to bend it too far. Had he been shot, she wondered? Bayoneted at the knee? What had happened to make him this way?

“Not quite as nice as I remembered it,” she said, realizing that she had been staring for too long.

“I’m sure your presence will only have improved it.”

A line she would have thought more appropriate coming from Anatole’s mouth. But he said it with such earnest sincerity, the sort Anatole would have laughed at, the sort Pierre would have fumbled with, the sort Fedya would never have even bothered with, that she immediately put the thought from her mind.

“You’re too kind, Monsieur Lavrov,” she said.

“I can’t imagine it was easy to leave Moscow behind.”

Hélène almost scoffed. Moscow, with its cold, empty streets. With its dull, miserable people. The city that went to sleep at ten o’clock.

“Not at all,” she said. “I missed Piter while I was away. More than I expected.”

Something in Sergei’s eyes crackled with anbaric energy. If she looked close enough, she may just as well have been able to see his thoughts playing out in his mind, clear as an open book. Innocent and sincere. Pierre had been this easy to read as well.

“I always miss it too, whenever I go abroad,” he said. “I think it’s the most beautiful place on Earth. You know what the French call it? _La Venise du nord_. The Venice of the North.”

“I can’t say I know Venice well enough to judge the comparison.”

“There’s no comparison to be made. Piter’s more a city of lights than any Venice or Paris or London ever will be.”

It certainly seemed that way, at least for a moment, if only for the lights of the room.

“I’ve always loved Petersburg in the winter,” she said, without fully knowing why. “My parents used to take me and my brothers to Alexandrovskiy Park when it snowed. I missed that most of all.”

“It’s a shame you didn’t leave Moscow sooner. Spring is already halfway out.”

“It’ll snow again, once winter returns. I’m a patient woman.”

The corners of Sergei’s eyes wrinkled with a kind smile. Seasons and snowfall. Had Hélène been outside of her body, listening in on the conversation, she would have laughed.

He took in a slow, bracing breath. She saw the question burning in his eyes before he even asked, “Has your father discussed my intentions towards you?”

Hélène felt her heart hammering in her chest, pushing the air from her lungs with every beat. “No, he hasn’t.”

The lie, much like everything else she had said, sounded ridiculous to her own ears.

Sergei nodded and squeezed her hand gently. “I believe in being direct, whenever possible. I know how terrible it is to be alone. I know how painful it is to be deprived of love. Let us help each other.”

It had been one thing, imagining it in the abstract. More distant, easier too. But now that she had heard it in his voice, her breath stuttered and froze in her throat. “Are you asking to court me, Monsieur Lavrov?”

“If you would be amenable to such a thing, I would very much like to.”

“I’m sure my father has already expressed my amenability on my behalf,” she said stiffly.

“He has,” Sergei said. “But it’s not your father I’m asking to court.”

Hélène laughed, and then almost laughed again at how genuine it sounded.

“I’d like to get to know you first,” he continued, smiling. “And you deserve to know me before you make any decisions.”

Some of the crushing pressure in her chest dissipated. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Sensible, I think. Modern. And if half of what I’ve heard about you is true, I look forward to learning more.”

“What has my father told you about me?”

 _What has my father told you_ , she thought, and not, _what have you heard_. After Pierre’s accusations, after that horrid night in the study, after Anna Pavlovna’s whisperings, she shuddered to imagine the gossip that was being spread about her.

“He said that you were a charming conversationalist and an accomplished hostess.”

“Yes,” she mused, oddly relieved. “I suppose that’s all you need to know, really. There’s not much else.”

“I’m certain that’s only what he thinks.”

Hélène laughed again. “I don’t imagine he’d like to hear you speaking of him that way.”

“We’ll just have to keep our voices down.”

“Alright, then. What else would you like to know?”

Sergei leaned in. An impish smile tugged at the corners of his handsome mouth. “Have you ever danced with a cripple before?”

Hélène froze, horrified for a moment, and then seeing how close he was to laughter, snorted in a rather undignified way.

“I can’t say that I have,” she said.

“Ah, well. I hope I won’t embarrass you too badly. Though I suppose everyone will be too distracted by how lovely you look to notice me limping. Have you read any good books recently?”

Hélène paused, bemused by how rapidly he seemed to flit between topics. “No, not really. I haven’t had much time for reading. What with all that’s gone on.”

“I find I’m always on the hunt for a new read. But I never seem to finish what I’ve started. Our library is filled with textbooks. I’ve tried having a crack of them, but truth be told, I don’t have a mind for theology or metaphysics.”

“I can’t say I do either. Though God knew my ex-husband could talk your ear off about it. I never cared for it.”

“You must be relieved that that’s over,” he said gently.

Hélène shook her head. “You’re a peculiar man, Monsieur Lavrov.”

“And you’re a charming woman, Princess Elena.”

“Call me Hélène,” she said suddenly, emboldened by the warmth of his smile.

His eyes lit like twin sunrises. “Well then, _je suis enchanté de vous faites reconnaissance, Princesse Hélène._ _Appelez-moi Sergei_.”

The French rolled off his tongue like silk. Easy and confident as a native language. Hélène thought of Vasily’s warning, the tricolor on Sergei’s pin, the talk of the war. Suddenly, these little things made sense.

“ _On pourrait se tutoyer_ ,” she murmured. “ _Si vous le voudrez. Mon père m’a dit qu’il fallait que je parle seulement en russe._ _Mais il n’est plus ici_.”

He must have heard the hesitation in her accent, the clumsy, too-Slavic roll of her r’s, because he said, “But we’d both be more comfortable in Russian, wouldn’t we?”

“Yes,” she said, flushing despite herself, despite the kindness of his tone. This wasn’t the way Vasily had reprimanded her. This didn’t feel like a reprimand at all.

“And what has your father told you about me?” he asked, as if eager to change the subject again.

Hélène raised an eyebrow. “Not all that much, I’m afraid.”

“In that case, let me tell you a little about myself. I fought in some minor skirmishes a few years ago in the Kościuszko Uprising, hence the bad leg. I don’t have as much patience for these events as I ought to”—she laughed again—“and my children are everything to me.”

Hélène was not laughing anymore. “You have children?”

Sergei smiled distantly. “Three. Two girls and a little boy. I expect the eldest will be making her debut soon.”

Hélène’s stomach dropped to her toes. “How sweet.”

“I’m very proud of them. They take after their mother.”

“I was told you were a widower,” she said gently. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Sergei’s face tightened with pain, almost imperceptibly. His hand tightened with it. “Thank you.”

Hélène frowned, studying the hard line of his mouth and the dark cloud that had come over his features. There was nothing hidden in those eyes, childlike and wide open, and though they were still trained on her, she saw that his mind was elsewhere. Somewhere dark and distant and long ago.

“What was she like?” she asked.

Sergei looked surprised for a moment. When he spoke next, his voice threatened to crack with every word. “Katrina was the most brilliant woman I ever knew. She wanted to study metaphysics at Muscovy Imperial Academy of Sciences, but they don’t admit female Scholars. She was ahead of her time. Ahead of all of us. I don’t think her world properly existed when she had entered into ours.” His smiled dimmed, then downturned. “You look a little like her, actually. There’s something familiar about your eyes.”

Hélène’s jaw clenched against her will. She knew her father too well to imagine that that was a coincidence.

So, that was what she was to be. A lookalike. A replacement. The pale imitation of a dead woman’s ghost. That was what Vasily sought to make her. What he deemed her worthy of.

Hélène burned with anger. Suddenly this whole charade seemed unforgivably cruel to the both of them, and to Katrina Lavrova most of all. Her hands trembled in Sergei’s. She realized, dimly, that they had stopped dancing.

Sergei lowered his eyes, wet with tears. His breath came heavy and hard. “I—I think this was a mistake.”

Dahanian brushed his head against Sergei’s dæmon. She recoiled with a whimper.

“Sergei?” Hélène murmured, frowning. “Are you alright?”

“I’m terribly sorry, Hélène, but it’s too soon.” His voice cracked with a sob. “I’m not ready to move on yet. I can’t do this.”

* * *

 

Anatole had never considered himself a religious man, but with every passing moment, he found himself closer and closer to clasping his hands together and dropping to his knees in prayer. It was bad enough, being forced to suffer through this charade, but Princess Mary, much to his dismay and growing horror, seemed entirely resigned to whatever arrangement Madame Scherer had put together for them. If she tried to kiss him or anything of the sort, he swore he would genuflect and recite the Our Father, right here, right in the middle of the room with everyone watching.

“Bald Hills is so lonely,” she said, with all the clinical indifference of discussing a house renovation. “It will be wonderful to see it full of people again—”

“I suppose we’re to marry, then,” he said glumly, finishing the thought for her.

If Mary picked up on his dig, she couldn’t possibly have looked any more apathetic than she already did. “Well, I suppose so,” she said. “There’s the matter of sorting out affairs at the estate, once we’re moved in and settled. I’d quite like a hire a cook from Petersburg. And we’ll have to find a new landscaper.”

“How quaint.”

“There’s a parlor on the second floor that’ll make a lovely nursery. I think that having the children nearby is important.”

Children. Dear God.

 _Just let me die right here_ , he thought. _Right in mid-waltz. It's the merciful thing_.

Anatole took in a fortifying breath, resigning himself, and said, “Well, if we’re going to have to suffer through this together, then I don’t see why we shouldn’t make it a little more tolerable for ourselves.”

Mary frowned at the interruption and cocked her head in tandem with her dæmon. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I’m not expecting matrimonial devotion or any of that nonsense. You won’t have to worry yourself with it. There are pretty women out in the country too, aren’t there?”

Mary gave a little gasp of horror and stumbled over her own feet, before he caught her. “I’ll be a good wife,” she said quickly. “You won’t have to stray.”

Anatole felt a hiccup rising in his chest and covered it with a cough. “I should clarify, Princess,” he said, “I meant for the both of us. You can have your dalliances on the side, and I’ll have mine. I don’t mind. I’d encourage it, honestly.”

Mary’s cheeks flushed a dark red. “So you don’t want me?” she asked in a quiet, tremulous voice.

“Of course not. I wouldn’t be here if my father hadn’t dragged me by the collar.”

Her mouth fell open in genuine hurt.

“What, did you think I asked for this?” he continued. “I can assure you, I didn’t. I’m assuming you didn’t either.”

“But I do want you,” she said.

Anatole considered himself worldly and experienced enough to know desire when he saw it on someone’s face, and this was decidedly not it.

He scoffed, “No, you don’t.”

Mary’s eyes darted to the floor, then back to him. “You don’t know that. You don’t know what I think. What I feel.”

“Of course I do. You’re terrified of ending up alone so you’re willing to attach yourself to anyone that’ll have you.”

Mary frowned. “That’s not true. I do want this. I wouldn’t be dancing with you if I didn’t.”

She was lying. It showed in every ungainly step she took, the utterly graceless slouch of her back, the awkward, reserved way in which she held her arms stiffly against him, her grip so tight it whitened her knuckles.

He wasn’t sure at all how much thought went into what he said next.

“You prefer women to men, don’t you?”

There followed a pause. A beat too many. Mary’s face twisted in disbelief and then disgust. Her fingers tightened on his shoulder, the nails digging into his sleeve and then the skin. The shrew turned her beady little eyes on him, accusatory, if that was even possible.

“I beg your pardon,” she said.

“Well, you do, don’t you?”

Mary detached herself from him with a cold look. “I won’t stand for you accusing me of this.”

“It was hardly an accusation, Princess. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “It’s a sin, and it’s contrary to the teachings of—”

“It’s not,” Anatole said, as the name _Princess Churchmouse_ ran through his mind. “Why would something that brings you pleasure be a sin? There are plenty of people like you.”

Mary stared at him in growing indignation. “‘People like me’?”

Anatole’s eyes drifted back to her dæmon, almost unintentionally, but certainly without subtlety. The shrew’s fur stood on end with an enraged stream of clicks and chitters that made Danali recoil.

“I don’t want to dance with you anymore,” said Mary.

A wave of dread washed over him, clearing the haze of vodka from his mind. Anatole blinked, startled. The room sharpened into focus. Suddenly, he was far too sober.

“Please, wait,” he said, reaching after her. “I never meant to offend, Princess Churchmouse, I only—”

“‘Princess Churchmouse’?” she hissed.

He froze a moment too late, realizing his slip.

“I remember you now,” Mary said, cold, dry fury stewing in every word. “You were the annoying little boy who wouldn’t sit still in Church. You called me names. You made me cry on Easter.”

“No, please, you’ve misunderstood me—”

“Andrei was right about you. He said you were a scoundrel and a no-good layabout. He said the Kuragins were a horrid family filled with miserable, rotten people.”

“Princess, please—”

“I don’t care what Madame Scherer says. I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on Earth.”

Anatole’s heart leapt into his throat. “We both need this,” he said, a little frantically.

“I’m not the one who needs this,” said Mary. “You’re more desperate than I will ever be.”

And with those last words hanging in the air, she turned to leave. Anatole’s stomach gave a sickening lurch. He lunged, more on instinct than anything close to sense, and grabbed her by the wrist. Mary froze in her tracks with a look of horror.

“My father’s going to kill me,” he said. “I wasn’t supposed to fuck this up. This was my last chance.”

“Let go of me,” she hissed.

“Please, Princess. I’m begging you. He said he’d turn me out on the street if I didn’t—”

Then, without even a second of warning, something warm and heavy caught him by the cheek, and his head snapped to the side. Danali shrieked and went flying to the floor. The orchestra screeched to a halt. The room spun around him in a whirl of color and light, a kaleidoscope shaken and spun in circles.

Anatole steadied his footing and realized, through the ringing in his ears, that Mary had struck him square across the face.

By the time the spinning had slowed, he saw that several other couples around them had stopped dancing to stare. A servant pouring a glass of wine, distracted, tipped the decanter out onto the floor.

Mary drew back her hand. Her palm glowed an angry pink. “I must be off now,” she said stiffly. “You’ve been a dreadful partner.”

This time, he watched her leave without protest. Piecemeal, hurriedly, clumsily, the orchestra resumed the beat, but the eyes of the room were still on him, and his feet had frozen to the floor. The crowd swept past in a lively Polish three-time. A shoulder jostled into his, then an elbow, almost knocking him to the floor.

“What have you done?” whispered Danali.

Anatole numbly raised a hand to his face, smarting where Mary had slapped him. A familiar sensation. His eyes darted towards Vasily, standing at the foot of the stairwell like a soldier, Asteria at his feet. They hadn’t noticed a thing.

His pulse roared in his throat. Going upstairs his room was a non-option, unless he wanted to have to explain Mary’s absence to his father, or for that matter, the new handprint on his cheek. Something else, then.

As if in answer, his eyes landed on the side door to the rear of the orchestra. Beyond that stretched a darkened hallway. More familiar, even, than the sting of a palm against his face.

“Tolya,” Danali hissed, with greater urgency, “what are you going to do?”

A curious half-smile lifted his mouth. Like a spark of lightning, he knew. He was going to do one of the only things in this world he was any good at.

He was going to run.

* * *

 

Fedya’s nails had been threatening to dig bloody crescents into his palms since the minute he had walked into the ballroom.

He hadn’t technically been invited to the Kuragins’ soirée, a fact which Hélène had waited until the day before to inform him of, and if he drew attention to himself, slipped up with the wrong name, bumped into the wrong person, he wouldn’t have put it past Prince Vasily to have him hauled from the premises by the Polizeimeister himself.

The alone was frustrating enough, but not nearly as much as having to watch Hélène dance with Ambassador Sergei Lavrov.

“You’re glaring again,” said Samira.

Fedya crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. It was dark in the back of the room where he had been lurking since the start of the evening, nursing a glass of whiskey that he had snatched from a passing server. “Shut up,” he snapped.

Samira made a displeased sound in the back of her throat and fell silent. But her comment had distracted him, thrown off his focus, and when he looked back to the dancefloor, Hélène and Lavrov had whirled out of sight.

He scanned the ballroom and found them, at last, by the diamond glint of Hélène’s necklace, that awful gaudy thing that she had insisted on wearing for some reason.

From what she had told him of Lavrov, he had only a dim idea of what to expect. Someone dull and old and horrid, like the rest of the nobility, self-absorbed and stuck-up, gorging themselves on caviar and champagne where the war couldn’t touch them while the rest of Russia crumbled.

But Lavrov wasn’t dull or old or horrid at all. No, even worse, he had to be handsome.

Heat pooled low in Fedya’s stomach and burned in his face. A familiar sensation by now. It wasn’t right. There was nothing remotely appealing about Lavrov. Fedya knew the type he fancied—an Anatole, or a Nikolai Rostov, or even an Andrei Bolkonsky. Svelte and pretty, girlish even. Not like Lavrov, broad-chested, wide-shouldered, tall, the build of a soldier.

But the more he tried to look away, the more his eyes wandered, and it wasn’t only for Hélène. Every now and then, over the din of the orchestra, he caught snatches of laughter, words and half-sentences truncated by violins and cellos, but beyond that, nothing. He thought of the Moscow soirée, and even though he didn’t want to remember it, Anatole and Natasha dancing together and stupid, thoughtless bliss.

Was this worse? Impossible to tell. But the resentment it stirred up in him felt just the same as it had then.

Come to think of it, Anatole was nowhere to be seen, and neither was the tall, dowdy woman he had been dancing with. Fedya did a mental calculation, weighing out the likelihood that he had left with her, before deciding that he had probably abandoned her altogether.

Desperate or not, a man’s standards could only fall so far. For a man as vain as Anatole, it wasn’t very far at all.

Then Hélène laughed, bright and ringing, and Fedya was startled out of his thoughts with all the clarity of a wine glass shattering against the floor. The dancers sharpened into focus again.

There they were. Lavrov’s smile was maddeningly, infuriatingly, intolerably handsome. And Hélène must have been of the same opinion, if the look on her face was anything to go by.

 _Greedy_ , said the voice in his head. _You lustful, selfish, greedy thing_.

Fedya burned with shame, then anger at the shame, until his nails broke the skin of his palms and his vision narrowed with black around the edges. He should have shot Lavrov where he stood. He’d hit trickier targets before. Take his pistol and align the sights with his heart, breathe in, breathe out, cock the hammer, and fire. Jealousy made him cruel and reckless, but he didn’t care. Anything to separate Lavrov and Hélène.

Suddenly a hand closed around his forearm, and Fedya almost drew his pistol on reflex.

“Captain Dolokhov, if I’m not mistaken?” said a lilting, feminine voice.

Fedya did not relax. Standing next to him was a short blonde woman with steel-grey eyes and a thin, wry mouth dressed in lavender silk. Her dæmon, a flimsy-looking orange butterfly, sat at her shoulder as if in lieu of a brooch.

“Yes?” he snapped, halfway to shrugging her off.

“Madame Scherer,” she said, offering him one diamond-encrusted hand. “But call me Annette.”

Scherer. The name was familiar, though he couldn’t recall why or where he had heard it. He did remember, at least, that it had been uttered in distaste.

He shook her hand instead of kissing it, the way he would greet a subordinate officer. Annette arched an eyebrow curiously.

“I don’t recall seeing your name on the guest list,” she said, eyes twinkling with mirth, while Fedya went cold with dread, “but what do I know? It’s certainly a delightful surprise. I never imagined Prince Vasily would one day play host to Dolokhov the assassin. I’ve heard so much of your exploits in the Caucasus. You must be terribly brave.”

“Thank you, Madame. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“You’ll regale us with tales of some of your adventures, won’t you?”

“No, thank you.”

Annette chuckled and grasped his arm. He smelled wine on her breath. “Perhaps I should keep you for myself then.”

Fedya ground his molars together. Samira’s teeth curled back, her canines flashing ivory. He considered saying something inexcusably rude or vulgar, but he was almost certain that that would cause a scene that would be irritating to extricate himself from.

The edge of her fan trailed along his jawline. “You’re far too young for silver, but I must say, it really adds character.”

“Thank you,” Fedya said curtly, and brushed her hand away.

Annette clucked, undeterred. “But so very cold! My goodness, darling, what must I do to get so much as a smile?”

Fedya glared at her without saying anything else.

Annette cupped his chin between her fingers and said, “I must say, though, I quite like that scowl. Very masculine. Rugged, even.”

He tipped his head back until she dropped her hand. For a moment, he caught sight of Hélène across the room, and Annette followed his gaze with a self-satisfied smile.

“She’s a lovely thing, isn’t she? She and Anatole—you know him as well, I’m sure—certainly got their father’s looks. The oldest is a bit unfortunate-looking, but I suppose one family can’t have everything.”

Ippolit, Fedya dimly remembered. The elder brother. It was easy, with how little Hélène and Anatole spoke of their family, to forget he even existed at all.

“Her father’s quite set on this match,” Annette continued. “He’ll bore her terribly, of course, but I’m sure the memory of you will keep her company some cold night.”

Her hand drifted to his chest and fiddled with the medal pinned to his lapel. Fedya gritted his teeth and said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Madame.”

“Oh, don’t be such a tease, darling. Everyone knows already. I’m sure the two of you made a handsome pair in Moscow, but this is Petersburg.”

“Madame—”

“You were intimate with Prince Anatole too, weren’t you?”

Gunfire sounded in Fedya’s ears. All the blood in his veins stilled to ice, heart thundering despite it all. His hand screamed for his pistol, but terror had paralyzed him. He saw it now, flashing before his eyes, what would happen—she would scream and shout all manner of insults his way, call him a heretic and a pervert, order him to be thrown out or hauled to prison.

But Annette did none of those things. Instead she smiled wickedly at this filthy, damming secret she had wrenched from him, and Fedya cursed himself to hell and back for losing his voice.

She leaned in until her mouth was entirely too close to his ear, her hand at the small of his back. “Not that I blame you,” she purred, hand dipping lower. “They’re both lovely creatures. But they’re moving on from you. Don’t give us such a long face, pet. You knew it was coming.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he repeated stiffly, unable to form proper words.

Annette chuckled and hooked her fingers under his jacket and in his belt loops. “Why don’t you and I go find a little entertainment on our own? I’m sure we could find an empty room somewhere.”

He had to leave. He couldn’t spend a second more here with this awful woman, or he might just shoot something. The chandelier. Her. Himself.

Samira barked, gruff and sharp and short, and Annette recoiled. When Fedya looked across the ballroom again, he saw that Hélène and Lavrov had stopped dancing.

“I’ll be off now,” he snapped. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Annette said nothing as he brushed past her and pushed headlong into the crowd, clearing a path before him with the fury of his glare, and strode up to Hélène and Lavrov, frozen in the center of the room.

Fedya reached over and laid a hand on Lavrov’s shoulder. “Pardon me,” he said coolly, without room for argument, “but I’d like to engage Princess Kuragina for the next dance.”

Hélène’s eyes burned furiously. But Lavrov looked relieved, more than anything, and his dæmon raised her glossy head, ears sharp and alert as a watchdog.

“That’s very kind of you, Captain,” Hélène began, her eyes on Lavrov, “but I’m afraid—”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Fedya cut in, addressing Lavrov.

“I wouldn’t at all, Captain,” he said politely.

“Captain Dolokhov—” Hélène started again.

Lavrov bent, kissed her hand, and said, in a voice that sounded strangely choked-off and croaky, “It was a pleasure, Hélène. Truly.”

Her eyes shot wide in disbelief. “Surely you’re not leaving already?”

Lavrov wiped his eyes with his glove. “My apologies, Princess. Have a lovely evening.”

“Sergei—” Hélène said, reaching after him.

Fedya cut her off with a sharp tug. “Princess.”

Hélène’s mouth opened in silent fury. Fedya watched over her shoulder as Lavrov headed for the front doors, still wiping his eyes.

Three staccato beats, and the orchestra shifted into a brusque mazurka. Fedya’s feet moved with its rhythm and his hand came up to clasp Hélène’s waist without thought. Samira and Dahanian did a fairly valiant job of avoiding their feet as he steered them across the floor with all the direct purposefulness of directing a platoon of foot soldiers. He was hardly graceful about it, he knew, but much like everything else he did, the effort was thrown into efficacy rather than elegance.

Hélène did not look pleased with this in the slightest. Embarrassment and indignation burned in her face. Her eyes were hard and cold, but the set of her mouth was mocking.

“What’s the matter with you?” he snapped.

One step a millisecond too slow and he stumbled over the hem of her dress. Fedya righted himself quickly, his own face burning now, and Hélène scoffed.

When she spoke, he caught a faint but unmistakable whiff of vodka on her breath. “Your footwork. You’re holding yourself like a soldier.”

“I am a soldier.”

“Not while you’re dancing with me.”

Fedya grumbled under his breath but adjusted his posture anyway, into something that would’ve been better suited to Anatole—head high, shoulders so far back it was almost ridiculous, stomach sucked in. A caricature of a ballet dancer.

Not an especially convincing one, evidently.

“Now you just look like a fool,” she said.

“Annette Scherer didn’t seem to think so.”

Hélène wrinkled her nose. Fedya gave a short, coarse laugh at her disgust. “You’re horrid,” she hissed.

“Again, I believe Annette would beg to differ.”

She closed her mouth, apparently having nothing to say in response to that. In the five or so seconds of silence that followed, Fedya swept his eyes across the room, warm and gleaming gold, Hélène the glittering center of it all, and it occurred to him that they had never danced like this before. They had danced, certainly, in taverns at midnight while the band screeched out some Romani folk tune or other, and privately at home, over a decanter of tokay and one of Anatole’s violin ditties. But never in public. Never with all the formalities of a proper soirée.

If the same thought occurred to Hélène, she made good effort to hide it. Her humiliation had hardened to cold dignity, the look of a woman who knew and felt more than she wanted to let on, but there was something desperately miserable in her eyes that made him take pity on her. She hadn’t asked for this, not any more than she had asked for Pierre.

“You and Anatole have the same expression when you’re sulking, you know,” he said lightly.

Hélène glared at him. “We do not,” she snipped.

“You do.”

“We look nothing alike.”

He chuckled. “You have the same pout when you’re angry. And you furrow your brows the same way. Don’t look so offended. I think he has a very pretty face.”

“Do you really think most women want to hear that they have the same face as their brother?” she snapped.

Fedya caught himself. He was going about this wrong. It wasn’t self-commiseration she was looking for—it was an outlet. There was nothing more entertaining to Hélène than prodding fun at misfortune of others, second only to driving Pierre to drink. Of the two pastimes, she had only one left at her disposal.

“Did you see how miserable Anatole looked?” he said, lowering his voice to something more conspiratorial. “That poor girl. He’ll have her running for the hills come suppertime.”

“Princess Churchmouse,” Hélène said, shaking her head. “Miserable creatures, the both of them.”

“Princess Churchmouse?”

“He used to nickname people, when he was little. Never politely. God knows why. He was such a horrid brat. He called our older brother ‘Hippo’ so often it made him cry.”

Fedya snorted. His stomach began to shake with laughter. Hélène finally smiled, a genuine grin that wrinkled her nose and the corners of her eyes. There it was.

Another step, and their chests were flush. Fedya leaned in, his voice lowered to a purr, and whispered, “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”

A light went off in Hélène’s eyes, as if a gas-lamp in her head had been switched on. “A minute ago I’m miserable, and now you decide I’m beautiful?” she said, with a decidedly coquettish lilt.

“You’re always beautiful.”

“Men are such fickle creatures.”

“Always so quick on your feet.”

At that, as if in disagreement, the toe of his boot caught on her slipper.

“I wish I could say the same of you,” she said.

Fedya chuckled.

“Anna Pavlovna. Jesus Christ. Honestly, Fedya, what in God’s name were you thinking? Has your taste fallen that far?”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he said. “She did make some compelling points.”

“I shudder to imagine.”

“This party is rather dull,” he said. “We might have to take her advice and find some way to entertain ourselves.”

Impish excitement glittered in her eyes. “Later?” she murmured, her hands tightening around his.

What a delight it was, to be the one teasing for once. Fedya forced himself not to laugh. “No. Now.”

“I can’t.”

“That’s a shame,” he said. “I’m only available now.”

“Don’t you dare tease.”

Fedya cocked an eyebrow. “Who says that I’m teasing?”

“Well, I can’t exactly leave.”

“Of course you can.” His lips stretched into a wicked grin. “You ought to leave now, while you can still walk.”

“We’ve nowhere to go,” she protested weakly.

It sounded, more than anything, like she was fishing for suggestions. Fedya was more than happy to oblige.

“It’s a big enough house,” he said. “And I have it on good authority that there are empty rooms to spare.”

Her eyes darted over to the corridor, just a line of darkness in the corner wall, so small and inconspicuous that he might have missed it altogether had her gaze not drawn his attention to it.

“That’s what I thought,” he said.

There was a hopeful tremor in Hélène’s voice. “Is my father watching us?”

Fedya spared a quick glance towards Prince Vasily. His mouth curled into a smirk. His hands dipped lower, to her hips. “No. He’s looking for Anatole.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our heads, Sergei is Tam Mutu
> 
> Mostly because @thewhiskerydragon is garbage for Dr. Zhivago


	21. The Family Kuragin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fedya messes up really, really badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! 
> 
> We've been getting into the spirit by writing a v ~spooky~ AU, so keep your eyes peeled! 
> 
> //
> 
> Please be aware that this chapter contains a graphic instance of child abuse, as well as non-graphic references to incest.

You knew things had really gone to shit when the only place you could get some peace and quiet was under the butcher’s table in the back of the dining room.

It had been a long time since Anatole had had to find somewhere to hide in the Petersburg house. As such, he had neglected to take into account the fact that he had grown a good few inches since then, and most of his old nooks and crannies now were too small to squeeze into, unless he fancied dislocating a joint or two.

Hence the table.

It wasn’t exactly comfortable, sitting squashed in the corner with his back pressed against the cold wall and his legs slowly going numb against the floor, but it was away from Vasily, away from Madame Scherer, away from Mary, and that was good enough for him, thank you very much.

Danali seemed equally content with this arrangement. She was even more content when he reached back into his pocket for the flask and untwisted the stopper with clumsy, hurried fingers.

“You drunk!” she giggled. “My God, Tolya, you’re turning into Bezukhov!”

Her giggling didn’t last long. Anatole tipped the flask upside-down, first into his mouth, and then his open palm, and saw that there wasn’t a drop left.

“Hélène,” he grumbled.

“You should’ve snatched a bottle of champagne,” said Danali, a little indignantly. “If we’re going to have to hide here till the evening’s over.”

Anatole leaned his head back against the wall as far as the height of the table would allow and pursed his lips. How long would that be? The orchestra was still playing in full swing. It hadn’t occurred to him that the festivities would have continued after he had left, or that he would have to find some way to occupy himself in the meantime.

It still wasn’t enough to make him consider going back.

Anatole had just pocketed the flask when he heard a pair of footsteps pattering in from down the hall. He groaned. Of course his peace wouldn’t last. This was the closest empty room on the first floor. It only stood to reason that an enterprising couple would eventually find it.

Danali curled against his shin and said, “I wish I could still shift. I could become a mouse to frighten them away. Or a bee to sting them.”

“And get stepped on or swatted,” he whispered. “Quiet now, or they’ll hear you.”

Sure enough, the footsteps grew louder as they approached, followed by two laughing voices, a man and a woman, breathless and giddy.

“Captain Dolokhov, this is most improper,” said the woman.

“I thought improper how you liked me, Princess,” the man responded.

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.

Anatole bolted upright so sharply that his head smacked against the underside of the table as Fedya chuckled and did _something_ that made Hélène squeal. The bang was muffled by an even louder commotion as their legs knocked against the tabletop in a hurried, clumsy tangle. Had they walked like this the whole way here—carelessly, toppling into every piece of furniture that passed their way?

They’d have the crowd following after them to see what the fuss was about if they weren’t careful, the idiots.

“I’ve missed this,” said Fedya.

“God, me too,” Hélène sighed.

Fabric ripping. Anatole wrinkled his nose. Danali shot him a dour look and clambered into his pocket to hide.

“So beautiful,” breathed Fedya, almost lovingly.

Hélène laughed again. “Oh, Fyedka.”

“Christ, Lena, you’ve no idea. I wanted to kill Lavrov. It was torture, watching you two.”

Anatole frowned, his disgust giving way for a moment to confusion. He hadn’t realized Fedya’s voice could sound so soft. It wasn’t something he had ever heard before.

“Mmhmm?” said Hélène.

“I kept thinking of you like this, and how much I wanted you, right in the middle of the ballroom.”

“The middle of the room?” she said softly.

Anatole cringed into his jacket, wishing it would swallow him up.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” said Fedya

“God, would I. Just to see Pavlovna’s face.” She hesitated for a moment. “What would you do with me, right there, in the middle of the ballroom?”

Fedya lowered his voice to a purr. “Bend you over and—”

Anatole immediately covered his ears, face burning hot, to muffle out the rest of Fedya’s sentence. He didn’t need to hear this. He didn’t want to. His night was ruined enough as is.

He caught a glimpse of Dahanian’s paws beneath the tablecloth, and then Samira’s, and pulled his legs up to his chest, folding over on himself and praying to whatever divine powers that may have been that neither of them had noticed him.

Then Fedya’s knee bumped against the side of the table and startled them both. Anatole realized, with a sinking sense of dread, that he had lifted Hélène onto the table and sprawled himself on top of her. Hélène’s feet swung over the ledge. Anatole reached forwards to yank the tablecloth back down and almost received the heel of her slipper to his face for his troubles.

Fedya grunted, “This is ridiculous.”

“Don’t tease!”

“No, I really can’t get the damn thing off.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” she snapped. “Do I have to do everything around here?”

There were more noises from there—shuffling fabric, wood creaking, the click of something that could have been a belt buckle or a clasp, and Hélène’s awful diamond necklace clattered to the floor so loudly that Anatole jumped and smacked his head on the underside of the table.

“ _Fedya_ ,” Hélène hissed. “You can’t leave marks.”

“That horrid thing’ll cover them all.”

The two of them giggled.

“Elena?” came another voice from further down the hall.

Danali gave a tiny horrified squeak. Vasily.

“Shit,” Hélène whispered.

“What do we do?”

“ _Hide_.”

Fedya fell to the floor as if pushed and just as quickly threw himself under the table. Samira shot after him. Anatole pulled his legs back to make room and grabbed Fedya’s shoulders, hauling him in.

Fedya’s eyes shot wide. “Ana—?”

Frantic, Anatole lunged forwards and cut him off with one hand over the mouth. Fedya pried his wrist away with a crushing grip. Anatole bit his tongue to muffle his own whimper.

Vasily’s boot heels clicked quietly against the floor, like the ticking countdown on a stopwatch. Anatole’s heart thundered in rhythm.

“Elena, what on Earth are you doing in here?”

“I was feeling faint, Papa,” he heard Hélène say smoothly. “I needed some air.”

“Monsieur Lavrov just came to me to apologize for leaving early. He was nearly in tears.”

“Yes, he seemed unwell,” Hélène said.

“He told me that he was no longer interested in pursuing a courtship with you.”

Dead silence. Satisfaction flashed across Fedya’s features for the barest fraction of a second.

The wince was evident in Hélène’s voice. “Oh.”

“What did you do?”

“It’s all very odd, Papa,” she said. “I have no idea what could have upset him. We were having such a lovely conversation.”

“Tell the me the truth, young lady.”

“He wanted to talk about his wife,” Hélène said, almost apologetic. “I didn’t know that he was still in mourning. You never told me. He upset himself. It wasn’t anything I did.”

“I’ve had enough of this petulance,” Vasily snapped. “I asked one simple task of you. And I had hoped that you would have had enough common sense to realize that I always act in your ben—”

Vasily cut himself off. The silence that followed was nothing short of agonizing.

“What is that on your neck?” he said.

Hélène sucked in a deep breath. Anatole caught sight of the glittering diamond chain, cast aside on the floor, and Fedya’s face, which had turned a sickly shade of grey.

“Elena,” said Vasily, “I asked you a question.”

Hélène stammered like a scolded child. Anatole winced and ducked his head. The urge to cover his ears and close his eyes was almost overwhelming.

“I—I don’t know,” she said hurriedly.

Fedya’s grip tightened to the point of pain. Anatole bit back a whimper and inched a little further towards the wall.

“Who’s here with you?”

“No one, Papa.”

Vasily’s boots appeared beneath the hem of the tablecloth. “Where is he, Elena?”

“Monsieur Lavrov has already left—”

“What, did you stow away a servant boy? A soldier? Out with it!”

Hélène fell silent. They watched as Vasily paced back and forth while Asteria remained in place.

“You’re a foolish girl,” he snapped. “You can tell me where he is now, or I’ll find him myself.”

Hélène had nothing to say to that. Anatole pushed his back flush with the wall as Vasily’s feet rounded to the table again with heavy steps, Asteria following behind him.

“Under the table, then, eh?” Vasily said, in a dangerously soft voice.

Samira’s ears perked up. Anatole tensed in an instant. And then Fedya, like the cruelest, stupidest man on earth, shoved him forwards.

Anatole’s elbows caught his fall before he landed on his stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. The floor was cold and unforgiving beneath him. Vasily’s face went white.

Anatole lowered his head. The handprint on his cheek burned. “Papa.”

For a long moment, Vasily said nothing. Then Anatole felt a broad hand close around his left bicep and roughly haul him upright to his feet, his father’s menacing face inches from his.

“What is the meaning of this?” hissed Vasily.

Anatole caught Hélène’s eye over Vasily’s shoulder. Fedya had torn one of the straps of her dress and smudged her lipstick and sent her curls askew. As if to add insult to injury, a dark violet bruise had blossomed along the side of her throat.

Vasily released Anatole’s arm and closed the door behind him with Asteria growling at his heels. His face softened when he turned to Hélène. “Elena, dearest, did he hurt you?”

“What?” squawked Anatole.

Hélène furrowed her brow, flushed and angered. “Of course not.”

Vasily laid a proprietary hand on her shoulder. “Go upstairs and get some rest, darling. You’re excused. I’ll tell your mother that you’re feeling unwell.”

“I don’t underst—”

“I’d like a word with your brother in private.”

“No,” Hélène said. “Nothing is wrong. You don’t have to speak with him about anything.”

“I know that this is confusing, Elena, but you aren’t at fault. You don’t have to protect him.”

“P-protect me?” Anatole stammered out.

“Not a word out of you, boy.”

Anatole closed his mouth.

Hélène burned with indignation. Anatole recognized the look in her eye. He had seen it in Moscow, directed at Pierre over the dinner table and across the sitting-room. Countless times here in Petersburg, after a rude joke at a soirée or salon had pushed their father’s temper too far.

“He’s done nothing,” she said, voice shaking with her own fear. “You don’t need to speak to him as if he’s a criminal.”

“Elena,” Vasily snapped, “go upstairs this instant.”

Before Hélène could respond, a door slammed open further down the hall, making them all jump, and a familiar voice shouted, “What in God’s name are you all doing in here?”

Aline had appeared in the doorway, red-faced. Anatole let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he had been holding. Vasily wouldn’t raise a hand to him now. Not with Aline present. He hadn’t yet, at least.

But then again, this was hardly an evening of following precedents.

“Anna Pavlovna has already noticed that you are all missing,” said Aline. “I daresay it won’t be long before the rest of our guests do as well. Monsieur Lavrov left early. Princess Bolkonskaya has disappeared for some reason.”

“Look at her neck, Aline,” Vasily said, through clenched teeth.

Aline furrowed her brow. “What?”

Hélène blushed furiously and clapped a hand to her neck. Too little, too late. Aline had already seen.

“Who did this?” she breathed. “Was it Lavrov?”

“Not Lavrov. She and Anatole were alone in here.”

Anatole’s eyes darted to the table.

“Oh my God,” Aline whispered. She shook her head, seemingly to dislodge the intrusive thought, and whipped back around to glare at Vasily. Galian reared his head and chittered angrily. “No. I won’t believe that.”

“He hasn’t done anything wrong,” Hélène said.

“Has Anna Pavlovna said something to you? Is that why you’ve been in such a foul mood?” said Aline. “You’re always so unreasonable after speaking with her.”

“Aline—”

“Anatole was gone before Elena went missing.”

Hélène took Anatole’s hand in her own and squeezed it, three pulses. “This isn’t his fault.”

Vasily ignored her as he spoke to Aline. “Take Elena up to her room. Anatole and I are going to have a little talk.”

“Vasily, for Christ’s sake, she’s already said that—”

“Aline!” Vasily bellowed. Asteria roared with him.

Aline, Hélène and Anatole all flinched in unison. Hélène dropped Anatole’s hand. The room grew cold.

“I said take her upstairs,” Vasily said softly.

White-faced, trembling, Aline took Hélène by the shoulders and ushered her out of the room. Anatole jumped when the door closed, the latch loud as gunfire. Fear gripped him, locking him into place. Something cold and heavy crawled up his spine. He turned his head down, afraid to meet his father’s eye.

“Explain yourself,” said Vasily.

Anatole swallowed, willing himself to do just that. He could speak to anyone. Words were his weapon of choice. Countless times as a child he had conned Ippolit into lending him toys and chocolates and rubles, and then persuaded him that an apology wouldn’t be necessary when lending turned into thieving. He had weaseled his way into Pierre’s house and coffers over tea and biscuits, and that arrangement had held for little over two years. He had charmed Natasha into bed with a few minutes of conversation and a letter he hadn’t even written himself.

But Vasily was where it all fell apart. The words, if he had had any at all, dried up in his throat, choking and tasteless as dust. His tongue refused to move.

Asteria growled, as if threatening to roar again.

“Now, Anatole!” said Vasily.

“I don’t—I don’t _know_!” he cried. “I just—she wasn’t interested in me anyways, Papa, and then she got upset and slapped me out of nowhere, and—”

Vasily’s fist caught his cheek, and Anatole’s voice cut out with a yelp, like a kicked dog, and he fell back into a chair. There followed a long silence. Anatole heard himself breathing hard but felt nothing.

“You hurt my daughter,” Vasily said, in a voice that was clearly struggling to contain his fury. “If it weren’t for your mother’s sake, I’d shoot you right here.”

Anatole froze.

Bile rose in his throat as he realized what Vasily thought he had done. No. It wasn’t that way, had never been, never would be as long as he lived. Vile. Unspeakable. Unthinkable.

Horrified, against his will, his mind flashed back to that night in the study. The sickening feel of someone’s fingers digging into his soul. Pierre’s accusations. He had looked at Anatole then the same way Vasily looked at him now, as if he had done something terrible and unforgivable.

Was it the taboo, Anatole wondered, for a wild, confused moment. Had he and Hélène somehow damned themselves?

Were people right about what it meant?

Was that what Vasily saw now?

It had always felt good with Hélène. Comforting. Grounding. And after all, as Anatole had always believed, as he had said to Princess Mary not even an hour ago, there was no sin in pleasure.

Not like Natasha. There had been no pleasure in that. But it should have felt good. It shouldn’t have made him feel as if someone had hollowed out his chest and filled his veins with ice. It should have felt the way it always had with Hélène.

But it hadn’t. It was only Hélène. It had only ever been Hélène. And the thought of it now seemed twisted and perverse and sick, and he hadn’t understood then, but he did now, or he thought he did.

There was something wrong with him. Something deeply, terribly wrong.

Anatole, for the first time in his life, felt dirty.

“I was lenient the first time,” said Vasily. “I listened to Elena because, scoundrel though you are, I thought there was still a chance you might redeem yourself. But now I see it was a foolish decision. I should have put you on the train to the gulags. You don’t deserve to be allowed back into polite society.”

Anatole swallowed. His hands twitched in his lap. “I’ll leave if you want,” he said quietly.

“Don’t be stupid. You know just as well as I do how men like you make their living on the streets. You may be a deviant and a disgrace, but I won’t let you sully the family name where people can see.”

Anatole’s breath came sharp, as if he had been struck across the face again.

“You’d like nothing more than that, though, wouldn’t you?” said Vasily. “To drag our reputation through the mud?”

“I wouldn’t—”

“Of course you would. You’ve done it already. And now this.”

Anatole looked down at the floor, wordless. Fear had knocked his mind off its hinges.

“No,” Vasily said to himself, with the sort of softness that usually preceded danger. “I’ve had enough of this. I won’t put up with it any longer. You’re not to leave your room. And if I so much as catch wind of you speaking to her, I’ll send for the Polizeimeister and have you hauled off to prison. Is that understood?”

Anatole nodded.

There was a hand under his chin, gripping it tightly, too tightly, tilting his head up. “You have a tongue, young man. Answer me when I speak to you.”

“Yes, sir,” he said hoarsely. “I understand.”

Vasily stepped back. He and Asteria shared a tired look, and they started down the hall. The door rattled in its frame behind them.

Anatole didn’t relax, not even as their footsteps faded off. He sat rigid in his chair, staring at the wall as Vasily’s words echoed in his mind. The orchestra had stopped playing and he hadn’t even noticed till now.

He heard boots shuffling against the floor as Fedya crawled out from beneath the table at last.

Fedya. Fedya, who had been there to hear everything. Fedya, who had listened to every word of Vasily’s tirade.

Fedya, who had pushed him out from under the table and thrown him to the dogs.

Anatole burned with silent fury and humiliation. He clenched his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. His knuckles strained, white and taut. In the back of his throat he tasted blood.

“Anatole,” Fedya began, in a low, somber voice, “I didn’t think—I never meant—”

Without so much as a word or a glance in his direction, Anatole rose from his seat and walked out of the room.


	22. Fine Doings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Natasha both come into their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Us?? Producing wholesome content??? More likely than you'd think!!

The carriage ride to Madame Scherer’s house was twenty long minutes of abject misery. Mary sat in silence with her cheek pressed to the carriage window, watching as the dark streets of Petersburg slipped by, absentmindedly fiddling Anselma’s whiskers between her fingers.

As they rode, Madame Scherer talked on and on about the evening, though Mary hardly paid her any mind. Every so often, she caught snippets of sentences, words that stuck out and jolted her back to consciousness.

“—so peculiar that the evening ended so abruptly. I never even got to have a word with Prince Anatole—”

Mary scowled. Anatole Kuragin. Even the name brought a rush of anger and humiliation with it. She heard his words again in her ear, in her own voice, pointed as an accusation:

_You prefer women to men, don’t you?_

Mary screwed her eyes shut and let a breath escape her. She had known, in her own odd way. Always had known. It would have been hard not to. Men had never held her interest, not like they were meant to, not like she’d read about in novels. She had tried, God knew she had, but there was no forcing some things.

She realized that now.

Without meaning to, her mind flashed to Amélie Bourrienne. The little French maid, with her soft blonde curls and dancing dark eyes, her pink lips and slim clever fingers. Her dæmon Barthélémy was a peacock, green and blue and purple and exquisite. Something more suited to a princess than a maid. Prince Bolkonsky had hired her some years back with the dual purpose of helping him about the house in his old age and having something pretty to ogle at, both of which Amélie had proven more than capable of.

Andrei had never cared for Amélie, had said she was flighty and rude, that she didn’t know her place. And Amélie had flirted shamelessly with him despite his refusals, and Mary, overhearing it, had burned with anger and something else unplaceable.

“You’re a peculiar one, _ma petite_ ,” Amélie used to say teasingly, as if she knew something Mary didn’t, or as if they had shared an amusing little secret. Mary had blushed and laughed then and hadn’t known why.

She pushed the memory to the back of her mind. Amélie was at the Bald Hills, and Mary was in Petersburg, and miserable and lonely and furious.

What a waste of a night. Dancing with princes. What had she been thinking? Why had she let herself be talked into it? Why, from the day they had buried her father and said goodbye to her brother, had she been following Madame Scherer around like an obedient little dog?

The carriage stilled to a halt in front of a tall, beautiful redbrick in the outskirts of the Nevsky Prospekt. Still talking to thin air, Madame Scherer herded Mary to its front door and into the parlor, a handsomely-furnished room with a view of the Neva. Mary laid her cloak over the back of the settee and sank onto one of its cushions while Madame Scherer went about switching on the gas-lamps and drawing the curtains. Hands folded in her lap, Mary stared into the empty fireplace, not so much seeing as remembering.

She had never struck a man before in her life. Even now, she wasn’t entirely certain why she had done it. But she didn’t regret it either. Her whole life, she had borne insults without so much as a word of protest. The change, much like the slap, had been startling to the point of relief.

And he had deserved it anyway, that awful man. That presumptuous, arrogant, insolent—

“Well?” Madame Scherer said, snapping Mary out of her thoughts. “How did your evening go? I trust Prince Anatole kept you quite entertained.”

“I don’t wish to speak of it,” Mary said, hands tight in her lap.

“Hm?”

“He was horrid.”

Madame Scherer sighed and seated herself on the ottoman across from Mary, her dæmon perched in her hair. “But did he tell you he’d be in correspondence? Did he ask where you were staying?”

“No.”

For a long moment, Madame Scherer said nothing. Her face reddened. Angrily, she took off her gloves. Until now, Mary hadn’t thought a person could remove their gloves angrily at all.

“So, you didn’t manage to impress him,” she said finally.

Mary straightened her back, still looking into the fireplace. “He didn’t manage to impress me either.”

“Men are hardly ever impressive, Marie. It’s a fact of life. You can’t afford to be choosy, not this late in the game.” Madame Scherer tutted to herself, as if in disgust. “We’ll just have to give it another go. I’ll bring you around for tea again on Sunday.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Mary. “He won’t want me now. Not after tonight.”

Madame Scherer frowned. “I beg your pardon.”

“He was disrespectful. I told him I that wouldn’t marry him.”

“Marie,” she snapped.

Mary turned her head to Madame Scherer, whose face had gone white, whose dæmon now held himself very, very still.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve just thrown away?”

Mary shrugged. “I didn’t want anything he could offer me.”

“You’re almost thirty. You’re running out of time. If you don’t get your act together, you’re going to live out the rest of your days as a lonely old spinster.”

“I’d rather die a spinster than spend a single day married to that man,” Mary said.

“‘That man’,” hissed Madame Scherer. “He was young and handsome and well-off. I couldn’t have made it any easier for you. People will talk, Marie. You know how Petersburg loves its gossip. What will they think when you weren’t even able to land the most desperate bachelor in Russia? You know what they say about women like you.”

Mary furrowed her brow. “What do you mean ‘women like me’?”

Madame Scherer gestured to Anselma. “People with this…aberration.”  

“She’s not an aberration,” said Mary, overcome by a sudden rush of boldness and pride. “She’s a creature of God. This is how we were made.”

Madame Scherer said something in response to that, but Mary wasn’t listening anymore. Moving like clockwork, she gathered her cloak and her suitcase in her arms. What was left for her in this miserable city? Why had she even stayed this long? There was nothing keeping her here, not really. She had money, God knew she had enough. What could a husband have given her that she didn’t have already?

She thought of Amélie. Enchanting, angelic Amélie, still waiting at the Bald Hills. Not all that far away. A day or two by train. A day or two, and she could be home, out of Petersburg, and she never had to return.

Her mind settled, Mary slipped on her cloak, one arm at a time, and fastened the brooch, already halfway to the door.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Madame Scherer snapped.

Mary stopped at the door and said, without turning her head, “I’m going home.”

“And what will you do there? Alone?”

She touched Anselma’s head. “I won’t be alone.”

Smiling, suitcase in tow, Mary tore down the stairs and stepped out to the lamp-lit street to hail a passing carriage.

* * *

 

Nikitsky Boulevard was a quiet little neighborhood in central Moscow, uneventful, predictable, where the carriages slowed for pedestrians and the church bells tolled out every odd hour and the people went to sleep at precisely eight o’clock.

Natasha had finished reading sometime around eleven.

She hadn’t intended on staying up so late, but Pierre’s book had drawn her in and refused to let go. She had devoured it like a starving woman, sat through dinner with it tucked discreetly in her lap, read until the gas-lamps had been shut off for the night and she had had to light a candle at her desk to stave off the darkness.

And before she knew it, it was almost twelve, and the house lay still and silent as a sleeping animal, and beyond her bedroom window, the streets of Moscow were pitch-black.

Pierre would still be awake at this hour. She was certain of that. Every night since he had come to stay at Marya’s house while his own was renovated, Natasha had fallen asleep to the sound of his pacing downstairs, the room below her, as if digging a trench in the floorboards with his footfalls. Marya had given him tea and sent him to her priest for his insomnia.

But it wasn’t the sort of thing you could fix with tea and prayers, Pierre said. And by that reasoning, Natasha thought, a bit of intellectual conversation might just do him some good.

She tucked the book under one arm and held the candle with her free hand. As she crossed the hall a floorboard creaked underfoot. Sonya, reading in her bed by candlelight, turned her head at the noise, and Natasha froze in place.

But Sonya only raised an eyebrow, gave a short affectionate laugh, and then went back to her novel without a word of protest. Natasha whispered a quiet prayer of thanks and carried on.

Silent as a mouse, she crept downstairs to the guest room where Pierre was staying and knocked at the door.

It swung open on the second knock. Natasha stepped forwards, holding the book to her chest, as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting.

Pierre wasn’t pacing at all. Far from it—Khione was curled at the foot of the bed, a snoring mountain of golden-brown fur, and Pierre himself lay sideways on the mattress, snoring as well, his brow furrowed in a slight frown. In his sleep, without his spectacles, he looked younger. As if half a decade of worry had been eroded from his face.

Natasha leaned against the doorframe to watch him. Something warm bubbled up in her chest as he gave a quiet snore, then shuffled onto his back, dragging the sheets along with him.

“Let them sleep,” whispered Adrastos in her ear.

“I know,” she said quietly.

Natasha took one step back into the hall. The floorboards gave a loud, conspicuous creak beneath her heel.

Suddenly Pierre bolted upright, his eyes wide. Khione shot to her feet with a startled bark. “Who’s there?” he shouted, dragging the sheets up to his chin.

Natasha flushed, mortified, and quickly backed herself into the hallway. “I’m so sorry Pierre, I never meant—”

Pierre reached over to switch on the thermolamp on his bedside dresser. The room flooded with a warm golden light. He rubbed his eyes. “Natasha?” he said.

“I didn’t realize you’d be asleep. I never meant to wake you. I’m so—”

“Did I frighten you?”

“I thought I frightened you.”

“Only a little.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—this was a mistake. I should leave,” she said, head low.

“No, no, please, don’t apologize. Is something the matter?”

“It’s nothing, really, it can wait till morning. Just a little something I wanted to talk about.”

Pierre muffled his yawn with his elbow, gesturing to the other side of the room. “Have a seat.”

“I really shouldn’t, Pierre, it’s—I shouldn’t be bothering you—”

“Nonsense, nonsense, it’s no matter. I’m awake now, anyway. What was it you wanted to discuss?”

Natasha shyly held up the book as she slid into the chair at the desk.

Pierre fumbled across the surface of his bedside table for his spectacles. He found them, at last, tucked beneath a half-opened paperback novel and a cleaning cloth. When he slid them on, his eyes widened.

“You’ve finished it already?” he said.

“Just now.”

Pierre blinked, owl-like. Khione made a confused sound and fell back on her haunches. “But you’ve not even had it a week!”

Natasha smiled and bit her lip. “I couldn’t put it down. It was such a fascinating read. And I wanted to talk about it with you.”

Pierre beamed. “Really?”

“If you’re not too sleepy.”

Pierre nodded. He kept on nodding slightly longer than necessary.

Delighted, Natasha laid the book out in her lap, thumbed through to a bookmark she had placed some hours earlier, and said, “On page two hundred eighty-six, Rusakov states, ‘From what we are, spirit; from what we do, matter. Matter and spirit are one, and Dust is only a name for what happens when matter begins to understand itself. Matter loves matter. It seeks to know more about itself, and Dust is formed.’” She looked up. “But he later goes on to imply that Dust is among the elementary particles of the universe. It sounds to me almost as if he’s contradicting himself.”

“Well, of course,” said Pierre, straightening the collar of his nightshirt. As he spoke, she caught a whiff of ink and parchment-paper and the barest hint of what could have been his cologne. “He didn’t want the Church inquisitors hauling him off to the Magistrate for proposing heresy. From what I understand of his research, Rusakov particles have some properties of consciousness, which would explain their affinity for settled dæmons. But he probably had to sanitize his theories when it was published for his own safety.”

“That’s hardly the most heretical thing he’s written in this,” she said. “In the introduction, he says, ‘Every little increase in human freedom has been fought over ferociously between those who want us to know more and be wiser and stronger, and those who want us to obey and be humble and submit.’ He was talking about the Church, wasn’t he?”

“I’d forgotten about that one, actually. Quite provocative.”

Natasha sank into the chair by the davenport desk beneath the window. Adrastos hopped to the windowsill. “Do you agree with it?”

Pierre turned one ear to the door, as if to make thoroughly sure Marya wasn’t listening in, and said, “Well, of course.”

“Why?”

He flushed. “Tasha, really, at this hour—”

“I do agree with it,” she continued. “But I want to know why you do.”

Pierre paused, as if having choked on his own words. “You do?”

“I enjoy hearing your opinions.”

“No, I meant why do you agree?”

“Well, I don’t necessarily the Church is wrong in every respect,” Natasha said carefully. “But I don’t think knowledge should be kept from us either. We have free will. We should be allowed to make our own decisions.”

Pierre nodded slowly.

Her face heated. Her eyes dipped to the floor. “When people aren’t allowed to know, when they’re told something is taboo and forbidden, and somehow they finally get a taste of it…they make bad choices.”

“I agree with some of that,” he said finally.

“‘Some of that’?” said Natasha, looking up.

“I don’t think the Church should tell us what to believe at all. No one body or system should have that authority. It’s propaganda.”

“It doesn’t all have to be. I don’t think there should be consequences for disagreeing, but—”

“Not the way it’s preached.”

“How would you know?” said Natasha. “You didn’t even listen during the service. You wouldn’t have even known when to stand and sit if I hadn’t told you.”

Pierre closed his mouth, abashed.

“There’s bad in it,” she continued. “I don’t doubt that for a second. There’ll be bad in every belief system and theology and ideology. But there can be good in it too. Charity, mercy, love—these are all things we learn during the services. It’s what I’ve learned, at least. I’m not asking you to agree, but I am asking you to show respect.”

Pierre was silent for a long while. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I never meant to offend.”

Natasha’s face softened. “It’s alright.”

“I never did—well, I can’t say I know all that much about it.” Pierre looked down at the quilt, worrying a loose thread between his fingers. “I think there’s still much I have to learn.” He looked back up at her, smiling a little. “But that’s half the fun, isn’t it? And I really—well, not to be too sentimental—but I’ve never been able to discuss these things with someone else. Not here, at least.”

“What do you think?” asked Natasha. “How do you think things should be?”

“I believe every person should choose what to believe for themselves. The French have the right idea about it. The equality of all citizens. Freedom of speech. That’s the sort of thing we’ve forgotten about in Russia. Our universities are filled with overly-pious aristocrats who have no interest in pursuing anything of real meaning.”

Natasha leaned forwards, pulling her feet up onto the chair beneath her. Pierre’s eyes gleamed almost gold, childlike, burning with excitement. The mattress creaked as he shifted his weight.

“Did you know at the Sorbonne they have a metaphysics chapel? They say one of their Scholars was able to produce a silver-emulsion photogram of Dust, under the aurora borealis. And what do we have here? Rusakov published his thoughts and they hauled him off to Siberia for blasphemy and crimes against public decency.”

“He was arrested?” said Natasha.

“Rather famously. They banned his works. My father got his hands on this one somehow, but most of the copies were burned.”

Natasha’s eyes widened. “By who?”

“The Magistrate. On the Tsar’s orders.”

She sucked in a deep breath. “And that’s why we’ll never be able to study these things, isn’t it? Because the Church and the Tsar act as one. They draw power from each other.”

Pierre frowned. “‘Draw power from each other’?”

Natasha nodded, thinking back to her history lessons. “Well the Church says that the Tsar was appointed by God, so he gets his authority from them. And the Tsar appoints the Church leaders. So it’s a reciprocal agreement. And that’s why nothing will change, not as long as they depend on each other.”

Pierre steepled his fingers under his chin, contemplative as a university Scholar, or a professor about to delve into a lecture. “You know, I never did think of it that way. What are your thoughts on—?”

The conversation flew away with the minutes. By the time the clock struck two, Natasha had joined Pierre on the mattress, elbows resting on her knees, book open in her lap, and the sky had turned the faintest shade of silver.

“My God,” Pierre said suddenly, adjusting his glasses. “Is that really the hour?”

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t realize.”

“I shouldn’t’ve kept you up this late. What time do you have to be up in the morning?”

“I’ll tell Marya I’m feeling under the weather. She’ll let me sleep in.”

Pierre chuckled. “I certainly hope so.”

Natasha closed the book. They turned their heads up at the same time, looking into each other’s faces. She was very close to him now. His eyes were a beautiful warm brown, flecked with shards of gold, and those lashes were dark and thick, and she could have counted every freckle on his blushing cheeks and forehead. He was no dashing prince, Natasha thought, but he was handsome in his own odd way.

Before she knew what she was doing, she leaned in and up, and he leaned in and down, edging closer together slowly, the heat between them rising until surely it would spark, and there was no sense or thought, only impulse.

Her breath left her as their lips met. Pierre almost drew back, but her hand found his cheek, and when he relaxed into her with a lovely sigh, he tasted of rum and tea, sweet and tart all at once. His hands fluttered to her waist, nervous but sure.

Andrei had never been like this. Their touches and kisses had been hesitant and reserved, formal to the point of coldness. She had loved him, and he had loved her, but she had always felt as if there were a barrier of modesty between them, something impenetrable and ashamed.

Anatole hadn’t been like this either. That beautiful, horrid man, the one she hadn’t loved, but the only one who hadn’t treated her as if she were made of porcelain.

But this wasn’t Andrei. And this wasn’t Anatole. This was something else entirely, something new and enticing and frightening and oh so right, and Natasha wanted nothing more than to pull him down atop her and—

“This is improper,” Pierre breathed, breaking the kiss.

Natasha laughed, running a hand down his cheek. “I’ve been improper before.”

His face darkened for the briefest of moments. He pulled her closer, tight against his broad chest, and Natasha laughed again, twining her arms around his neck.

“Oh, Tasha,” murmured Pierre, in between kisses. “My darling. You’re so perfect.”

A warm rush surged through Natasha. She shrugged off her dressing gown and let it fall to the floor, pooling around her feet. Pierre made a surprised noise as she fisted her hands in the front of his nightshirt and pulled him down, on top of her. He broke the kiss with a quiet gasp.

“Tasha, we can’t,” he said.

Natasha curled her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck. “Marya’s asleep. Sonya’s promised to keep quiet. Nobody will know, just you and me.”

Pierre drew away, fingers flying to the buttons of his nightshirt, and sat on the edge of the mattress facing the wall. “This isn’t right.”

Natasha frowned and sat beside him. “Don’t you want to?”

Pierre flushed. He picked her dressing gown off the floor and laid it in her lap. “I—well, yes, I do—but we should do things the proper way. We ought to be realistic about it. I think it would be best if we married.”

“Pardon?”

“I could speak to Marya in the morning, write your father, head to the Magistrate and put in a deposit for the certificate. It’ll all be very fast, I promise.”

“No,” said Natasha. “I don’t want that.”

Pierre furrowed his brow. “You don’t?”

“No.”

“It’s the right thing to do, Tasha. I couldn’t—I would never wish to disrespect you in that way.”

Natasha lowered her voice. “Do you think this is shameful, then? The two of us, unmarried and—?”

“No, no, no,” said Pierre, reddening. “It’s not what _I_ think, it’s the principle of it.”

“‘The principle’?”

“You’re a beautiful young woman. You have such a bright future ahead of you. Think of your prospects. And me, I’m an old fool, I’m a bastard, and all of Russia thinks I’m—”

“I don’t believe any of that,” Natasha said firmly, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs. “And I don’t care about honor or virtue or anything of that kind. It means nothing to me.”

“You mustn’t speak like that,” said Pierre. “Whatever—whatever is in your past”—Natasha blushed hotly—“you have so much potential. You shouldn’t waste it on me.”

“Is it a waste if it’s what I want?”

Pierre bit his lip. His fingers delicately traced the outline of her face. “I’m serious about marrying you, you know.”

“No. Not now.”

“Why not now?”

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to. I want it to be special.”

Pierre nodded slowly. For a moment, he said nothing.

“I’ll have to keep that in mind, then,” he murmured.

Natasha’s heart ticked into a faster beat. Warmth danced across her fingertips, bloomed in her chest, as if someone had lit a firecracker in her stomach. Giddiness filled her head. She didn’t know the name for this sensation, only that she had only felt it once before in her life—the day Andrei had asked for her hand in marriage.

And then, possibly the most impulsive thing she had done all night:

“I love you.”

Pierre’s eyes welled with tears. “I love you too,” he whispered.

Natasha laughed and blushed and pulled him in tight. Moonlight burst into the room, warm as a summer’s day. She felt a heart beating wildly and wondered briefly whose it was.

It seemed to Natasha, at least for a moment, that all the world was her and Pierre, and no one else.


	23. A Proposal of Sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are two proposals. One is more more successful than the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be advised that this chapter contains a major character death.

Hélène didn’t remember the first time Vasily had locked Anatole in his room. It was too long ago, too distant and unremarkable. He had probably been seven or eight, punished after failing his mathematics lessons or sneaking off in the night to pelt rocks at Anna Pavlovna’s window. He had cried, she remembered, scared and wanting his mother, until Vasily had let him out with a shouting-at and a stern warning that the infraction was not to be repeated.

It had happened again after that, of course. Too many times to count.

It didn’t help, Hélène supposed, that Anatole’s natural disposition was inclined towards a disregard for authority. It helped even less that Vasily ran his household with all the domineering authority of the Tsar himself. The routine had grown out of some grotesque combination of recklessness, fear, and cruelty—a thoughtless mistake here, an incensed father there, and Anatole would end up locked in his room again for a few hours or days. And Hélène, feeling sorry for him, would slide letters under the door until she learned to pick locks with hairpins and grew bold enough to slip into his room when no one was looking to keep him company.

She didn’t bother with that this time. Not when her father was constantly lurking over her shoulder and Anatole would only land himself in hotter water if they were caught. And after the flaming wreck of the soirée, she supposed she should have been grateful it was confinement to his room and not Kresty Prison.

In the days following, Aline skulked around the house like a ghost, and Fedya, as if to add insult to injury, had disappeared entirely, not that she had expected anything less. Had Hélène been angrier than she was exhausted, she may have considered tracking him down, but if she laid eyes on him again, she may very well have gone for his throat, and she knew there was nothing in either her or Dahanian’s conscience that would have stopped her.

One warm Friday morning while she was writing a letter to Ippolit bemoaning the state of her existence, Vasily entered her room with his hands clasped behind his back and said, “Elena, may we speak?”

“No, thank you,” she said. “I’m writing a letter.”

“Would you like to come downstairs? The letter will still be there when you get back.”

“I’m quite comfortable here, thank you.”

“You have a visitor.”

“I’m not interested in gossiping with Anna Pavlovna today.”

Vasily sighed. “I know the last few days have been upsetting, darling, but you have to leave your room at some point. It doesn’t do to dwell up here like a shut-in.”

Hélène didn’t so much as lift her eyes from the page. “What, like Anatole?”

“Elena,” Vasily said warningly.

Her hand tightened around her pen. She would have almost preferred if he had gotten mad at her. With anger, at least, there would have been something to bite back at. Some small, vindictive part of her, whatever in her Vasily hadn’t been able to bully into begrudging compliance, wanted to fight. But his coddling was more infuriating somehow, and even as she snapped, “Who is it?” the dig of her words sounded more petulant than righteous.

“Captain Fyodor Dolokhov,” said Vasily, without a trace of frustration in his voice, damn him. “I thought you might like to take tea with him. Chaperoned, of course.”

Hélène dropped her pen. “Captain Dolokhov?”

Vasily smiled. Victory, said the smile, which only frustrated her more. “Yes, Elena, Captain Dolokhov. Come along now. We don’t want to keep him waiting.”

Hélène considered this for a moment. Fyodor Dolokhov, paying calls to Kuragin Manor. There was no sense in it. No discernible motive.

A terrible thought struck her like a shard of ice. Had he come to confess? Was this his shoddy, last-ditch attempt to make amends? The idiot, she thought. Vasily would see him shot, there was no doubt in her mind of that, and if she wasn’t there to stop him, God only knew how long he would run his mouth, or what sort of trouble he would talk himself into.

Hélène pushed her chair in and hurried downstairs to the sun parlor.

Fedya was in his uniform, a single medal gleaming at his breast pocket. His hair had been combed down, his boots newly-polished, and—Hélène did a double-take—he had shaved off his beard.

She would have liked to have said that it made him look younger, or handsomer, or gentler, but in truth, it only made him look like a stranger. Less Dolokhov the assassin and more Dolokhov the schoolboy, unless of course you counted the pistol discreetly holstered at his hip.

“Captain Dolokhov,” said Vasily, gesturing to Hélène, “might I introduce my daughter Elena.”

Fedya bent over her hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “You look lovely as always, Princess Kuragina.”

“Thank you, Captain,” she murmured. Demure, with an undercurrent of warning. Hélène could read his emotions like an open book most days, but now, his face betrayed nothing.

She didn’t like that. She didn’t like that at all.

“You didn’t tell me you were already acquainted with her,” Vasily said lightly.

Fedya hesitated for the briefest of moments. “We were acquaintances in Moscow. It’s been a while since I’ve had the opportunity to visit with her.”

“Well, in any case, it was kind of you to come by,” Vasily said. “I’m afraid Elena’s been rather out of sorts the last few days.”

Fedya’s grip on her hand tightened. He held it longer than was appropriate. “I’m terribly sorry to hear that.”

“A small matter,” said Vasily. “Her brother is ill at the moment. He’s taking some time to recuperate in peace. I’m sure you can understand.”

Hélène almost raised an eyebrow. She had seen her father lie a hundred times over—God knew she had learned from the best—but it was jarring, at least a little, to see it met with only feigned belief.

“Such a shame,” Fedya said, with a strange stiltedness. “My condolences for his poor health.”

Fedya’s unease was palpable as Vasily called in the butler to serve them tea while they seated themselves. Three chairs arranged around a round table, and behind that, a tall French window. Sunlight streamed in through its panes, yellow with midday, though the skyline was crowded with nearing storm clouds. If it wasn’t raining by nightfall, it would be thundering by morning.

Fedya sat as if preparing to deliver battle plans to a Hussar regiment—stiffly, and with an obvious air of discomfort. Samira lay entirely too close to Dahanian, who stiffened like a housecat and shifted away, pressing up against Hélène’s legs. He tried to climb onto the chair beside her, but there wasn’t enough room, and she shooed him away before he could get a paw up on the cushion. Saucers were dispensed, drinks poured, and a middling conversation filtered in in between.

“How are you finding Petersburg, Captain?” asked Hélène, stirring a lump of sugar into her tea.

She wasn’t angry or suspicious enough to forgo politeness in front of Vasily, but there was a deliberate coldness to her voice as she spoke. _Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you’ve done_ , it said.

“I quite like it,” said Fedya, the lie as awkward as his posture.

Vasily sat back in his chair, silent, sipping at his tea.

“I’m glad,” she said flatly. “I know it can be quite an adjustment, uprooting oneself to a new city.”

“Yes,” Fedya said, with a slight frown. “You must be glad to be home as well.”

Hélène said nothing to that, and Fedya didn’t offer anything more. The silence stretched a few beats too long.

Finally, Vasily said, “Really, Captain, I was under the impression you were here to speak to my daughter, not to sit and twiddle your thumbs.”

 _Yes_ , Hélène thought, teacup halfway to her lips. _Do tell, Captain_.

Fedya cleared his throat. “I was actually hoping to speak to you, sir.”

Vasily raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I want to court your daughter. I’d like to marry her.”

Oh.

Oh, dear Christ in heaven.

Was this better? Was this worse? Impossible to tell.

The room was silent for a few moments as those words sunk in. Fedya stared on in expectation; Hélène in disbelief. Vasily remained entirely unreadable, save for the slightest twitch of his lips as Asteria tilted her head.

“Very well, Captain,” he said finally. “Make your case.”

Fedya’s jaw stiffened. If he hadn’t prepared for this, Hélène thought, if he hadn’t expected her father to try rip him down to his bones and tear him apart word by word, then he deserved every bit of vitriol Vasily would no doubt hurl his way. “My case, sir?”

Vasily regarded Fedya with cold indifference and set his teacup aside. “Elena is my only daughter. I am invested in her future. I’m sure you can understand.”

“Of course,” Fedya said. If Hélène didn’t know him better, perhaps she would have missed the frustrated tone that had crept into his voice. The way his hands instinctively twitched, as if aching to draw his pistol, was far less subtle. “I’m invested in her future as well.”

Vasily steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “What can you offer her?”

“Papa, _really_ —” Hélène began.

“You, as far as I am aware of, have no title. No land. No inheritance. Nothing to ensure her comfort or prosperity.”

Fedya drew his chest higher and stiffened his shoulders. Vasily’s words, despite their calm, almost affable delivery, had clearly been intended to offend. And they had done just that.

“With all due respect, Prince Kuragin, I am a decorated captain of the army. I was awarded the Imperial Order of Saint Alexander Nevsky for honorable service during the Persian campaign.”

Asteria’s lips curled back, showing the white gleam of her canines.

“A military man,” Vasily said, his smile every bit as unsettling. “How quaint.”

“We could do with a military man in the family. God knows how much longer the fighting will go on, now that the French have come to Russia,” said Hélène.

“Elena, darling, there’s no need to trouble yourself with talk of war.”

“Of course there is,” Fedya said. “We’re preparing for an invasion, Prince Kuragin.”

Vasily paused, and for the briefest of moments, his smile dipped in recognition. Of what exactly, Hélène was unsure. But it chilled her all the same.

“The war is not here, Captain Dolokhov,” said Vasily. “And in any case, it’s not suitable conversation for my daughter.”

Fedya pressed his lips into a thin line. “Forgive me, sir.”

Vasily turned to Hélène and said, in French, “I apologize, darling. I had no idea he would be so crude. Would you prefer if I asked him to leave?”

“Of course not, Papa,” Hélène said firmly.

“I could do it discreetly. He doesn’t have to know why.”

“Prince Kuragin,” Fedya said, in Russian, “I apologize, but I’m afraid my French is—”

“Nonexistent, clearly,” said Vasily. “If you had had any sort of sensibility, any proper education, you wouldn’t have approached me in Russian at all. What on earth made you believe a man like yourself would be a suitable match for a princess? By the time my daughter was seven, she was fluent in French as well as Russian.”

“No,” Fedya said. “That’s Anatole, not Hélène.”

Oh, no.

Vasily’s face hardened. “I beg your pardon.”

Hélène began, “I’m sure the Captain only means—”

And then Fedya, like the stupidest man on earth, cut her off.

“Hélène’s never been fluent in French. She only speaks it when she wants to sound pretentious or to impress the twits at the opera. Anatole’s the one who’s fluent.”

“Captain Dolokhov, I would thank you kindly to close your mouth,” said Hélène.

“Be quiet, Elena,” snapped Vasily.

Hélène drew back.

“You shouldn’t speak to her like that,” Fedya said angrily.

Hélène and Vasily both stilled.

“They’re both terrified of you, you know,” he continued. “I don’t imagine it’s different for the third. How many times did you have to hit her to make her flinch when you speak?”

Vasily was silent for a long moment. His hands tightened. When he spoke next, he kept his voice level, but his eyes were dark and cold. “I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse your offer, Captain Dolokhov. Please leave.”

Fedya exhaled sharply and looked down at his feet. He was trying to calm himself, Hélène knew. His hands had clamped into fists in his lap, twitching for the pistol at his belt. _No_ , she thought desperately. _Please, no_.

But when Fedya spoke again, she almost wished he had resorted to the gun instead.

“The only reason I asked your permission was to mollify her,” he said.

Asteria growled softly and shifted to stand in front of Hélène. Vasily’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Hélène’s heart sank a little further. “What are you insinuating?”

“That you can’t stop me,” Fedya said, his voice edged with threat. As if speaking to Vasily through the sights of a pistol from forty paces away. As if glaring across a battlefield. “I’ll hire a troika and steal them away if I have to.”

 _Them_. Hélène’s skin went cold all over.

Vasily rose to his feet. “How dare you. I’d sooner die before I’d allow a degenerate like you near my daughter. Get out of my house. Now. Or I’ll see you sent before a firing squad.”

He would. He really would, she thought dizzily, through her fury.

“Then I challenge you,” growled Fedya, shoving his chair backwards.

“Fedya!” snarled Hélène.

“Go back to your room, Elena.”

“Out with it,” said Fedya. “If it’s honor you’re after.”

“It is below my station to duel with someone like you,” Vasily said coldly. “If it’s a fight you want, I’m certain the constable will be more than adequate for you.”

Fedya’s face flattened confusedly. Of course, Hélène thought. It would come as a shock only to Fyodor Dolokhov that not every problem could be solved with dueling pistols.

“Off with you,” said Vasily. “If you show your face on this street again, I’ll send for the police.”

“Papa—” Hélène cut in.

“Upstairs, young lady.”

Her nails dug into her palms until they threatened to break the skin. Fedya’s eyes darted between her and Vasily, calculating, expectant, as if waiting for her to intervene further.

Hélène turned on her heel and tore across the hall and up the stairs, cursing Fedya, cursing her father, cursing the war and all of Russia and the Tsar himself. Her footsteps fell heavily enough to rattle the floorboards, angry and thoughtless. She didn’t care. Vasily would scold her for that later, for exiting in disgrace and maltemper, and she didn’t care about that either.

Idiot Fedya. Loud, brash, hot-headed Fedya, who had the nerve to bring a pistol to a proposal. He may just as well have fired it in the middle of the parlor, for all the good he had done her today.

“He’s a brute,” Dahanian hissed, his tail snapping back and forth. “A horrid, coarse, loathsome—”

“Shut up,” she snarled, and slammed the door shut.

* * *

 

Moscow was blooming.

Spring had fully settled in, and it was finally warm enough that Pierre no longer needed to wear his coat, which was why he supposed he had decided to set out for a stroll in the park. At this hour, the sky’s pale gold had just started to give way to blue. Further ahead, by the edge of the lake, a gaggle of children were throwing breadcrumbs to the ducks, and their dæmons became kingfishers and goslings and loons to paddle in the water and wreak havoc while their parents watched from the comfort of the bench. Now that the snow had melted away, all the world was green.

Pierre was distinctly reminded of the pastoral oil painting he had once seen hanging in his father’s house. His nose was running to hell and back and his eyes were watering like the devil, but by God, was it a beautiful day.

“We should’ve brought some bread, Petrushka,” Natasha said, eying the ducklings. She had retired her white fur coat for a powder-blue frock embroidered with tiny forget-me-nots. There were wildflowers braided in her hair, and every time she turned her head, Pierre was hit with a waft of their sweet-smelling perfume. She looked like an auloniad nymph, some nature goddess or forest spirit. Something impossibly beautiful and enchanting.

Pierre chuckled and squeezed her hand. “Next time.”

Natasha looked up at him with a smile like the sunrise. “How about a boat ride, then? Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Pierre gave a nervous laugh. He hadn’t dared venture out onto the lake for many years, not since he had first arrived in Moscow as a young man. No sooner had he set off from the dock than he had grown dizzy and unsure, and the boat had promptly overturned, dumping himself and the young princess he had been hoping to impress into the water.

“My balance is dreadful,” he said, flushing at the memory. “I’d make a fool out of myself.”

Natasha pouted. “One day, though.”

Something clenched around Pierre’s heart. In a breath, in the blink of an eye, he knew that he would row a paddleboat out into the middle of the lake and throw himself and Khione into the water, clothes and all, if only to make her smile again.

“One day,” he said, brushing a kiss to her temple. “I promise.”

Pierre led her to the botanical garden, where the tree s parted to form a sunny little grove, and the pathway was lined with flowerbeds.

Natasha did. As they walked, she pointed out each by species—Alstroemerias, white roses, ambrosias, lily-of-the-valley, smilax, zinnia—and knelt to smell their perfume, nudging Pierre to do the same. Eventually he hung back as she circled the fountain by herself. Natasha laughed with childlike glee as Adrastos hopped off her shoulder to chase after a butterfly hovering in the lilacs.

Do it, Pierre told himself, fiddling with the buttons of his waistcoat. Four words. You’ve said them before. Why is it so hard now, now that you’re saying them to the right person?

Natasha plucked a dandelion from the ground. She twirled it over in her fingers, watching its sun-yellow head spin like a pinwheel, then tucked it behind his ear. Satisfied that it would stay in place, she leaned up on her tiptoes to peck his cheek.

Pierre wiped his sweat-slick palms on the thighs of his trousers. He hadn’t been this afraid in a long time.

“Tasha?” he said.

Natasha smiled expectantly and turned her head with a quiet, “Hm?”

“Natasha, my darling,” he said, clasping her hands in his, “I am a bastard. I am a drunkard. I am the laughingstock of all of Russia and a divorcé to boot. My wallet is always empty and I’m stout as a bear.”

Khione huffed irritably at that, sinking onto her haunches.

Pierre wasn’t done yet. Natasha nodded and waited for him to continue.

He did, after a long pause and a ragged breath. “If all of that doesn’t frighten you away, you’ve already given me far more than I deserve. But I had to, I _needed_ to ask if—I mean, of course I’ll understand if you don’t want to, but—”

“Petrushka,” she said, her eyes glittering, “are you asking me to marry you?”

Pierre paused, remembering himself, and quickly got on one knee. He reached one hand into his pocket, but there was nothing there. Frowning, he checked his other pocket and came up empty again.

No. That wasn’t right. He had put the ring in his pocket specifically for today. That was how he had planned it, how he had been planning it for the past month or so. A lovely silver ring with a small moon-shaped diamond, in a black velvet bag, in a black velvet box, in—

Pierre’s eyes widened.

Not in his pocket. The box was still on the dresser, in his bedroom, back at the house on Prechistensky Boulevard. He had forgotten the damn thing entirely, and here he was, mid-proposal, and he didn’t even have the ring to show for it.

Perhaps he should have opted for the boat ride instead.

He tried to backtrack. “If…if I _was_ —which is not to presume that I am, but let’s assume it’s in a more hypothetical sense…well, what I mean to say is that—”

“Oh, my darling,” Natasha said, “I was starting to worry you’d forgotten entirely!”

With a gleeful shriek, she launched herself at him. Pierre caught her around the waist, but the momentum was enough to send them both tumbling to the ground, hopelessly intertwined and laughing all the while.

They rolled to a halt. Natasha took his face in her hands and kissed him sweetly. Pierre let out a laugh that was equal parts nervous and thrilled, as she kissed him again and again and again. “Is that a yes, then?”

Natasha smiled. Her hair fell out of its braid, and it streamed down her shoulders and across his face in a lovely dark tangle of silk. “Oh, Petrushka,” she sighed, laying her head against his chest. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

Pierre felt his heart thrum, so quickly that it almost made him shake.

“Pinch me, would you?” he said. “I must be dreaming.”

Natasha smiled and kissed him again. “I was going to ask you the same.”

Pierre’s heart now threatened to beat right out of his chest. Slowly, he picked himself out of the ground, brushing the dirt and grass and pollen off his waistcoat, and steadied Natasha as she rose to her feet.

“When should we marry?” she asked.

“As soon as possible,” he said. “I don’t want to spend another minute not being your husband.”

“Yes,” breathed Natasha. “That’s all I want. I don’t care about a big ceremony. I don’t want anything fancy or expensive. I just want you.”

“We’ll find a priest,” said Pierre.

“We’ll write my parents,” she said.

“And it can all be over and done in a few weeks.”

Natasha drew back suddenly, her mouth hanging open. “We’ll have to tell Marya. And Sonya too. And my family, and—oh, Princess Mary, I’ll have to tell her too!” She looked back at Pierre with glittering eyes, as if something wondrous had just dawned on her. “You’re my fiancé now. Pierre, you’re my fiancé now!”

Pierre couldn’t help but kiss her again. Something in his chest bubbled and foamed over, like a shaken champagne bottle, like a firecracker set off into the air, and he wondered in that instant how he could ever be this happy again.

That night, when Pierre arrived home, he poured himself a glass of tokay, made a toast to all the happiness and love in the world, and waltzed around the sitting room with Khione, stumbling and laughing all the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fedya's beard just had to die. It was crucial to the plot. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also bonus points if anyone guesses which princess Pierre accidentally dumped in a lake!


	24. A Call from the Front Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fedya and Anatole are both having really, REALLY bad days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! We really really love and appreciate you for it!
> 
> (We are so sorry for worrying all of you on our last post)

Located approximately halfway between the Haymarket and Petersburg’s downtown tochka, Traktir na Pyatnitskaya did not seem a particularly upscale establishment from the street. A squat redbrick dwarfed by the buildings on its either side, with drunks spilling out the front door and drinks spilling out the windows. At this hour the city was dark, but a single sputtering gas-lamp lit the corner.

Standing in its feeble yellow light with a handful of kopeks rattling around in his pocket, Fedya was uncomfortably reminded of his first foray into Matreshka’s. He pushed the thought aside. After today’s debacle, he was more than entitled to a little distraction. He wanted drink, he wanted merriment, and he wanted to fleece someone at cards. That much he deserved.

Fedya shouldered the door open.

Chaos greeted him inside. The ceiling was low, walls papered viridian, stained with beer and decorated with the mounted heads of deer and elk and bears. Opposite the bar was a roaring fireplace, and what space came in between those two had been crammed with shabbily-clothed tables and garish red booths, like a cheap imitation of something from the Moscow opera. A cloud of cigar-smoke and perfume hung over the room, the familiar air of debauchery. Equally familiar was the crowd this place had drawn—criminals, layabouts, drunks, whores, soldiers, sailors, gamblers.

Fedya immediately felt at ease. He brushed his way through the crowd to take a seat at the bar, then flagged down a waitress and ordered a glass of whiskey.

“No need for that,” she said as he dug into his pocket to pay. “The tab’s already been covered by the gentleman at the back.”

Fedya bristled defensively. “Tell him that I’m not interested.”

“It’s not you he’s interested in,” said the waitress, rolling her eyes. “He’s paid for everyone.”

Fedya closed his mouth and leaned back in his seat. The waitress sauntered off to fetch him his whiskey.

“Generous,” murmured Samira.

“They do themselves nicely here, don’t they, Sami?” he said scornfully.

“Lucky for us.”

Fedya shucked off his jacket, one sleeve at a time, and tipped the waitress anyway when she returned. The whiskey went down strong and peaty. It didn’t taste as good as he had expected, but then again, he wasn't drinking for the taste.

Noise filtered in around him as his ears adjusted to the room. Someone was playing piano. Another pair of hands plucked at a guitar. From somewhere deep within the swell of the mob, a bow was drawn across the strings of a violin and the bellows of an accordion shrieked out in countermelody. The ruckus they were making shouldn’t have been called music, but the bar sang along anyway. A Gyptian folk tune, perhaps. The lyrics were old-sounding, a song of farewell, and it grew louder and more insistent with every verse, as if demanding his attention.

Then, amid the din, a rush of cold air, and a familiar voice.

Fedya’s head snapped to the back of the room, opposite the door. He blinked, then looked away, then blinked again, then looked back. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. No. That couldn’t have been right. He was seeing things. He must have been. He was on the wrong side of the Neva, for Christ’s sake.

But his hopes proved short-lived. Because there, swaying back and forth against the table, fiddling furiously at a violin tucked under his chin, was Anatole.

Fedya swore under his breath, sober in an instant. All the disreputable establishments in Petersburg, and he had to choose the one Anatole was visiting. Of course. With the sorry state of his luck these past few days, why had he expected anything different?

Fedya looked away, praying that Anatole hadn’t seen him, and silently stole towards the door, leaving the whiskey at the table. But before he had made it even halfway, he felt a pair of arms close around him from behind and heard a musical voice lilting in his ear, “Fedya, _mon chéri_ , how the devil are you on this fine evening?”

“Far more sober than you, evidently,” Fedya grunted, twisting around to disentangle himself.

Anatole looked only slightly more debauched than usual, which was to say, considerably. His silver hair stuck out at a jaunty impossible angle, the sort of way he’d wear it to the opera, but there were dark circles under his eyes and a purple-yellow bruise on his cheek the size and shape of a man’s closed fist. He wore a maroon travel coat and a black waistcoat. There was lipstick, garish red and sticky, smudged along the side of his neck. Fedya scowled and wiped it off with his thumb.

“ _C’est quoi, ce bordel_?” Anatole said, cupping Fedya’s jaw, which by now had grown an impressive layer of stubble. “You look like a schoolboy!”

Fedya brushed his hands away. “Shut it.”

“Oh, don’t be so upset. I think you look charming. _Un visage comme un dieu grec_.” He tipped up Fedya’s chin with his forefinger, trailing his thumb against Fedya’s bottom lip. “I like the way it feels too. I should give you a kiss. See if it’s any different this way.”

“Keep your voice down,” Fedya snapped.

Anatole laughed him off. “So tense this evening! Come, come, let’s have a drink or twelve. On the house. Or on my father, as is.”

Without waiting for a response, Anatole took Fedya’s wrist. Fedya noticed that his nails had been bitten down to the quick, and there were tiny pools of blood around his cuticles, as if he had been gnawing at them all evening.

Fedya’s own hand, the one not buried in the fold of his pocket, instinctively found its way to the small of Anatole’s back. Anatole purred like a cat and leaned his head against Fedya’s shoulder. Hardly standing on his own feet. Danali poked her head out of his breast pocket, and, seeing the stern look on Fedya’s face, promptly slunk back down to hide.

Fedya led them to a booth in the corner, overshadowed by a massive bearskin mounted on the wall. They wouldn’t be noticed here. Not unless Anatole’s earlier outburst had inspired a few overly curious onlookers.

They slid into their seats, one on either side of the table. Anatole flagged down a waitress and ordered them a tray of vodka, then leaned back against the wall as he plucked aimlessly at the strings of the violin. Fedya strongly suspected it had been borrowed—however loosely the term applied—from one of the other patrons.

“So, what’s troubling you?” Anatole asked.

“Women.”

His fingers struck an unpleasantly dissonant chord. “I must say, _mon cher_ , that’s a first for you.”

Fedya shrugged morosely, drumming his fingers along the surface of the table. “Supposed to be easy. Find a nice girl, get engaged, that’s it.”

Anatole looked at him over the neck of the violin. His eyebrow quirked into an amused arch. “Trying to settle down on me? Am I that boring these days?”

“Can’t exactly marry you, can I?”

That earned him a peal of laughter. “Oh, you’re funny, Fyedka. Here’s a thought—we’ll find an altar and a priest with cataracts and I’ll wear the dress. How does that sound?”

“Like you’ve had too much to drink.”

Anatole slid his foot up the inner side of Fedya’s calf, still plucking odd notes out of the air. His eyes glittered darkly. “Well, if you’re to be a husband soon, we ought to celebrate your last days of freedom.”

“Her father said no.”

“All the better for me.”

The toe of Anatole’s boot began to nudge Fedya’s knee open. Beneath the table, Samira gave a warning snap. Anatole drew back his leg quickly and set the violin down in his lap.

“This mystery woman,” he said, straightening in his seat. “Does Lena know?”

Fedya sighed. Lying to a sober Anatole was easy to the point of cruelty. Drunk, it was laughable.

“Of course not,” he said. “I didn’t want to upset her.”

Anatole frowned. “So why did you tell me?”

“These things don’t matter to you.”

“They don’t?”

“Why should they?”

For a moment, Anatole looked almost hurt. But then, with a sort of false drunken cheer, he shook his head and said breezily, “Ah, well. _Marriage_. Who gives a shit? It’s not like either of us should live that long anyhow.”

“Christ, Anatole,” Fedya said. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Fyedka. Why would it be? Nothing matters.”

And then, with neither a word of warning nor a lick of common sense, Anatole leaned across the table, flung his arms around Fedya’s neck, and kissed him square on the mouth.

Or, he tried to, but Fedya shoved him back with a stern, “Not here.”

“Fuck it,” Anatole said petulantly. He reached out a hand to toy with Fedya’s hair. Fedya didn’t bother to slap it away, curling one hand tightly around his wrist instead. “What can they do?”

“Arrest you for crimes against decency. Ship you off to Siberia. Tell your father.”

At the word _father_ , Anatole let out a bitter huff. “Sod him,” he said, and went in for another kiss.

Fedya bent the wrist in his hand back to the point of pain. Anatole’s face twisted into a scowl.

“Fuck you, Dolokhov, that _hurt_ ,” he snapped.

Anatole tried to pull his arm back, but Fedya tightened his grip. He would be damned if he would let Anatole make a fool out of him. Not here. Not now. Not after everything.

“We’re in public,” he said, low and warning. “Show some self-awareness before I have to slap it into you.”

“Tolenka, darling!” a woman called from across the room.

Anatole craned his neck over Fedya’s shoulder and said, “Duty calls. Hold this for me, would you?”

Quickly, he wrenched his arm free, kissed Fedya’s cheek, and shoved the violin into Fedya’s hands, before staggering to the front of the bar, where a tall redheaded woman with a parakeet on her shoulder and a bottle in each hand was waiting for him. Anatole took one of the bottles from her and clambered up onto the bar. She wrapped her arms around his leg. If she had hoped to steady him, it only made him sway even more precariously.

Anatole cleared his throat and raised the bottle high. The other patrons fell silent and gathered around him to listen.

“Well, comrades,” he slurred, listing against the beam, “we’ve had our fun, but my time here has come to an end.”

The audience cried out in disapproval.

Anatole waved them down to quiet them again. Then, with flourish that would have been perfectly suited to the opera stage, he put one hand over his heart and said, “I’ll see you again, my friends. I’m only going abroad. For now, I’d like to propose a toast, in celebration and remembrance.” He turned to Fedya, leveling the bottle at his head, and their eyes locked across the room, cold and distant and uncomfortably close all the same. “To friends. And lovers.”

Fedya’s cheeks burned. The other patrons cheered. Someone jostled his shoulder in a fraternal sort of way, until he ducked away from their hands, and Anatole shook his head and continued:

“Let’s all raise a glass! Here’s to our happiness and freedom!”

“To life!” shouted one patron.

“To love!” called another.

Laughing now, an almost maniacal gleam in his eye, Anatole raised the bottle above his head and said, “And to Napoleon, may he come and butcher us all!”

The lot of them, save for Fedya, roared with laughter. Anatole tipped back the bottle and drained it, and when he was done, tossed it to the ground, where it shattered.

“Another for the road!” he shouted.

“No, time to come back down,” Fedya said, extending an arm.

Anatole bent his knees and braced his arms out behind him. He was going to jump, the absolute fool. Jump, and no doubt smash his idiotic face into one of the tables or break his stupid neck against the backrest of a chair.

Fedya stepped forwards and pulled him over his shoulder before he could make his leap. Anatole dissolved into giggles and tried to wrap his clumsy arms around Fedya’s waist.

“Can you stand?” asked Fedya, thoroughly unamused.

“Of course,” Anatole said. “Been standing all my life, haven’t I?”

But the moment Fedya set him on his feet, he began to sway like a sailor newly acquainted with land and slid to the floor with a muffled _oof_.

“What the hell is going on?” Fedya snapped.

Anatole gave an awful deranged laugh. “Didn’t you hear my toast, Dolokhov? I’m running away.”

“What?”

“Apparently, I’m so depraved that I fucked my own sister, so Papa is having me sent to the front line. Shouldn’t be too far off from here at this point, what with how quickly the French are moving.” He made a pistol with his fingers, aimed it at the wall opposite, and pretended to fire it. “I’ve decided I’ll have nothing to do with it.”

Fedya felt as though someone had taken a bucket of ice-cold river water and emptied it over his head.

“He’s sending you away?”

Anatole shrugged. “Can’t disgrace the family name if I’m dead. Sound enough reasoning.”

Fedya stiffened at the word _dead_. “Does Hélène know yet?”

“Haven’t seen her in days. Papa wouldn’t let us talk. I’m supposed to be under house arrest. Technically. He’s not very good at it, to be honest. He doesn’t even lock the windows.”

“You climbed out a _window_?”

This prompted another scoff. “Can’t exactly climb out a door, can I?”

“Come now,” Fedya said, looping an arm around Anatole’s waist and lifting him to his feet. “I’m taking you home.”

Danali chittered irritably as Samira picked her up by the scruff of her neck.

Fedya began to steer him towards the door. Anatole caught his leg against the beam, which halted them both. “No. I won’t go off to the front,” he said. “I can’t.”

“Anatole—”

“Let go of me.”

“I’m bringing you home.”

“Well, I’m not going with you,” he snapped. “I’m running away.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve no money. No skills. Nothing to live off of.”

“I’ll manage. I’m a pickpocket already, aren’t I?”

“Anatole—”

“Oh, shut up! You don’t care. You don’t—you’ve never cared. You think I’m stupid.”

“You don’t give me reason to think otherwise,” snapped Fedya.

Anatole made his slurred voice cold and cruel and deliberate. “Maybe I’ll just go and whore myself out, then. If that’s all I’m good at. You’ll write me a glowing reference, won’t you? It’s the least you can do after everything you’ve done to me.”

Nausea and guilt threatened to rise in Fedya’s chest, along with them a flood of memories he fought to push down. The burnt-out stench of cigar smoke. Perfume and cheap wine. Those two nameless strangers, one dark, the other fair and blonde. The black cat and the sparrow. _Greedy_.

His hands tightened into fists, trembling, knuckles taut and white. Some crevasse in his heart had hollowed out with shame. But the worst thing of all was that Anatole didn’t sound entirely joking this time.

“I’m taking you back to my flat,” Fedya said thickly.

“No.”

“Anatole.”

“I don’t want to go to your stupid flat. I want—I think I’ll go back and have another drink. They haven't realized yet that I can't pay the tab.”

The look on his face was that of a man too far gone to realize his own stupidity. There was no winning. Not with sense or logic, at any rate. Never mind dodging it; it would fly right over his head and he’d never realize it had been thrown at him in the first place.

Emotion, now, that might do the trick.

“I’ll take you to see your sister,” said Fedya.

There it was. Anatole’s head snapped upright, although he tried, in vain, to hide how tempting that offer was. “Can’t.”

“I can. I’ll take you back home and we’ll wake her up. How does that sound?”

Anatole’s lips turned down in a pout. “Door’s locked.”

“Since when has that ever stopped you?”

* * *

 

It took only thirty seconds of pelting rocks at Hélène’s bedroom window before she pulled it open, leaned out, and hissed in a voice like poison, “What the hell’s the matter with you, Dolokhov? Someone’s going to hear.”

“Let us in, would you?”

And Anatole, more or less entirely leaning against Fedya by this point, startled at Hélène’s voice and turned his head up to the window. When he saw her looking down at them, his face brightened.

“Lena!” he called up. “Oh, Lena, I’ve missed you!”

He pitched forwards, wriggling away from Fedya’s arms, and collapsed against the wall, too drunk to hold himself upright on his own feet.

“Come to the side door,” Hélène said tightly. “I’ll let you two in.”

The house was dark at this hour, still and silent as a graveyard, and they walked in silence for fear of waking the servants or Prince Vasily or Princess Aline. When they reached Hélène’s room, she closed the door behind them and pulled Anatole down onto the bed.

“Oh, Tolya,” she said, holding his face in her hands, not bothering to spare a glance in Fedya’s direction. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“S’not.”

“I should’ve spoken up. I should’ve said more and I—oh, Toto, I’m so sorry. If you’re angry with me—”

“ _Angry_?” he said, frowning.

“—I don’t blame you for it. Oh, Tolya, your poor face.” Hélène ran her fingers down his cheek, delicately tracing the bruise there. “Did he hurt you?”

Fedya tensed at the accusation in her voice. He un-tensed, less than a moment later, face burning hot with shame, as he realized that it wasn’t him she had been referring to.

“Doesn’t matter,” murmured Anatole.

Hélène sighed and pressed a kiss to his temple. Suddenly she drew back, nose wrinkled. “You smell like the tochka.”

“I was having fun,” Anatole slurred. “Saying g’bye.”

“What?”

“Your brother has decided to become a streetwalker,” Fedya said flatly.

The look in her eyes was pure murder. “I wasn’t speaking to you, Dolokhov.”

“I forgot to say goodbye t’you,” said Anatole. “I’m s-sorry, Lena.”

She frowned and stroked his hair back. “‘Goodbye’?”

“I’ve been called out to the Army,” Anatole said. “Papa said so.”

Hélène’s face went white. Dahanian whimpered as if he had been kicked and pawed at Anatole’s leg.

“I’m going with him,” Fedya said immediately. “I’ll head to the War Office in the morning and report for deployment.”  

Hélène was silent for a long while, her lips pressed together in a grim line. “When do you leave?” she said finally.

“Few days, Papa said. There’s a train leaving on Monday.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Does Mama know yet?”

Anatole shook his head. “Not yet. Haven’t seen her. Not since—”

“I’ll talk to him,” Hélène cut in, gripping him by the elbows, her voice carrying a touch of hysteria. “He has connections, he can pull strings. We’ll figure something out.”

Anatole continued to shake his head. His bottom lip wobbled dangerously. “He won’t listen.”

“He’ll listen to me.”

“He won’t, Lena. Not me. Not you.”

“He can’t do this,” said Hélène. “He can’t send you off to the front. We’re preparing for invasion. It’s suicide, you won’t—”

She cut herself off, but too late. Anatole took one halting step back from Hélène, wide-eyed, pale, trembling, and dropped to the floor. “Oh, God,” he said, his voice catching in his throat. “He wants me dead, doesn’t he?”

A respectably dead son over one still alive to cause scandal. Fedya burned with fury. He ought to have taken his pistol to Vasily Kuragin’s temple, to hell with the rite and rituals of a duel, and settled matters once and for all.

Hélène sank to the floor beside Anatole and folded him in her arms. “No. Don’t say that, Tolya. You know it’s not true. Listen—listen here, look at me—we’re going to write to the War Office in the morning and get things sorted—”

“I c-can’t go, Lena,” he blubbered. Tears leaked down his cheeks. “Imperial green washes me out.”

Hélène stared helplessly at the wall as Anatole pressed his face to her shoulder and sobbed like a child.

Fedya drifted towards the window and said nothing. He was an intruder here. That was all he had ever been, really.

Hélène composed herself with one owlish blink and began to wipe her brother’s eyes.

“Tolya,” she began, in a slow, level voice.

“I d-don’t want—I don’t want to go, Lena.”

She smoothed her hands through his hair. “Shh, don’t cry.”

“I have to leave,” he said, raising his head, eyes wet and streaming, breath hitching with hiccups. “Lena, I can’t—I can’t _stay_ here, they’ll send me off to die—”

“Toto, darling, just let me help—”

“Y-you can’t help me!” he cried. “You think that—that you can, b-but you _can’t_ , Lena!”

Hélène drew back as if burned.

Anatole wiped his eyes furiously, to little avail. He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and said, “I need Balaga. I have to hire a troika. I have to leave t-tonight.”

“Balaga’s in Moscow,” said Fedya.

Hélène took Anatole’s wrists in her hands and lowered them from his face. “We have to be smart about this. We’re not going to solve anything tonight.”

Anatole sobbed again, weakly this time, and they could see that there was no fight left in him. His head slumped back to Hélène’s shoulder. She kissed his forehead and wrapped one arm around his waist, stroking her other hand through his hair.

For a moment, Fedya caught her eye. Her expression was utterly unreadable.

By now the frantic rise and fall of Anatole’s shoulders had begun to slow. He wasn’t asleep, but drunk and exhausted enough that the difference hardly mattered. In the dim silvery light of the room, he and Hélène looked like two crumbling marble statues.

Without being asked, Fedya bent and lifted Anatole into his arms. Hélène sat back without a word of protest. Anatole’s cheek turned against Fedya’s chest, his eyes closed and still streaming with tears. Danali lay curled in the crook of his elbow.

“I’ll show you to his room,” whispered Hélène, rising to her feet.

Fedya nodded, squeezing Anatole tighter, and followed her down the darkened hall. They stopped at the first door on their left.

“It’ll be locked,” said Hélène. “I have to pick it open.”

Fedya frowned as Hélène produced a hairpin and knelt in front of the door. She jammed it into the lock and fiddled with it for a minute or so.

Finally, the lock clicked, and the door swung open.

Anatole’s room was large and elegant, the same style as Hélène’s. On the far northern wall there was a four-poster bed, its quilt the same dark green as the curtains. A white-painted armoire, a French bureau, and a green-and-white Persian rug. In one corner, a music stand sagging under a veritable novel of sheet music, and in the other, a white-brick fireplace with its doors closed by a lock.

A gust of wind blew in from the left. Fedya turned his head. Through the open window, lashed on one end to a bedpost, hung a rope of knotted bedsheets. It looked old. Well-worn.

Hélène hauled the rope into the room and kicked it under the bed. “I’m surprised it still holds your weight.”

“I’m not that heavy,” Anatole said numbly.

It could have been a joke. Fedya dearly wished that it could have been a joke. Only it wasn’t.

Anatole’s limbs went slack as Fedya laid him on the bed, his face pathetic and miserable. Hélène peeled off his coat and shoes and then drew the quilt over him.

“Don’t go,” he said, catching her sleeve.

She sighed again and took his hand. “I’ll be back in a moment. I promise.”

Anatole dropped her hand and curled into the blanket.

Fedya’s eyes darted back to the window and the faint outline of a footprint on its sill. Anatole’s head fell to the side, his eyes glassy and incoherent. Neither said anything.

A moment later, Hélène appeared again in the doorway and knelt at the side of the bed. In her hands was a small black velvet pouch. She pressed it into Anatole’s hand, folding his fingers around it. “I want you to take this with you,” she said. “For good luck.”

Anatole’s eyelids fluttered. “Lena?”

“Dahanian can watch over you. Wherever you go, we’re with you.”

His eyes began to well with tears again. “Lena,” he hiccupped.

Hélène kissed his forehead. “Go to sleep now, Toto. There’s no need to think about this tonight.”

“Wait. You should have this too.” He clumsily reached into his pocket and pulled something out, handing it to her.

In Hélène’s palm lay a small, silver replica of Danali. For a moment, Fedya thought he saw tears shining wetly in her eyes, but it could just as easily have been the moonlight.

“I’ll keep it safe till you return,” she whispered.

“And it’ll keep you safe.”

“You’re right,” she said, smiling tightly. “Of course it will. And we’ll keep you safe, and you’ll come back home to us once this is over.”

“Not home. Not here. I can’t come back here. Not with Papa—”

“You’ll meet me in Moscow, then. Alright? You’ll come back safely. Together in Moscow. I promise.”

“Together in Moscow,” Anatole echoed.

“That’s right. So there’s nothing to worry about, is there?”

Anatole shook his head and closed his eyes.

She kissed his cheek and stood. “Get some sleep, Tolya. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“In the morning,” he murmured.

Hélène lingered at his bedside as they left, Fedya following her. She pushed the door shut with one trembling hand. When the latch bolted, she let out a sigh that sounded as if it had been dredged up from the depths of her soul.

They made their way back to her room in silence. Fedya felt as if a small part of his soul had frozen and died in the hallway.

Without looking at him, still twisting the Danali figurine over and over in her hands, Hélène turned to face the window, her face lit silver, and said, “You love him.”

It wasn’t a question.

Fedya considered denying it, but only for a moment.

“Yes,” he said.

Hélène nodded and traced a line over the figurine again. When she spoke, it was as if she were addressing Pierre. “You owe him, you know. All of this is your fault.”

Fedya swallowed down a hot rush of guilt. “I know,” he murmured.

She nodded again, mulling over her own fury. “You’re going to make me a promise, Dolokhov. If you have a single shred of decency left in you.”

“Anything.”

“You’re a captain. Find a way to get him under your direct supervision. Don’t let him out of your sight. Keep him away from the guns and the fighting.”

“Of course.”

Hélène finally looked into his face. Her eyes were dark and unreadable. “And if it comes down to the two of you, you will save him over yourself.”

Fedya would have done it in a heartbeat, right here, right now in this room if he had to. Thrown himself over for Anatole’s sake. Anything. She had to know that already. There was no way she didn’t.

She only wanted to hear it spoken aloud.

“I won’t let you down,” he said.

“You’d better not. Because if you come back to me without him, I’ll head right to the Magistrate and have you arrested for sodomy.”

Fedya flinched. Anger flashed through him, hot enough to burn. He looked for any trace of hesitation in her face and was terrified to find that there were none. Her eyes were as merciless as the bayonets of a firing squad.

She would ruin him, he realized. If she wasn’t mad enough to follow through on the threat, she was certainly vengeful enough. He didn’t doubt that for a second.

“I’ll keep him safe,” he said, his throat threatening to close. “No matter what.”

“Alright, then,” said Hélène.

Silence fell between them, deafening and heavy. Fedya looked down at his feet. “I should be off, then, I suppose.”

“You should sit for a minute,” she said, and pulled out a chair for him. “You’re going on a journey. Come. Sit. I won’t have you leaving this house with any bad luck hanging over your head.”

Fedya hesitated. Hélène had always scoffed at superstitions and tradition. It was the sort of thing Anatole would have insisted on. Something small and trivial and foolish to fuss over. An excuse to dawdle.

He sat anyway. What was the harm in it? What was the difference of one minute in the grand scheme of things?

After a minute had passed, he rose to his feet again. Hélène started after him with a frantic sort of animation to her limbs. Afraid for him to leave. This woman, who had just threatened him with what was almost certainly execution. The better he knew her, Fedya thought, the less he understood.

“Wait,” she said, the words slipping past her lips as if by accident.

Fedya frowned. “Lena?”

Hélène wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him in close, pressing her face into his hair. He clung tightly to her, breathing in her smell and committing it to memory.

“Be safe,” she whispered, and for the briefest of moments he thought he heard tears threatening to choke off her voice.

“I will,” he said.

One more promise he couldn’t swear to keep.

When she drew back, her face had slipped back into its mask of cool refinery. Hélène Kuragina, the greatest liar in all of Russia. Fedya stiffened his lip. There was no room for tears or self-pity. If this was to be the last time she saw his face, it would not be the face of a man defeated. He wouldn’t allow it.

“Goodbye, Hélène,” he said.

Her hand tightened around his, three quick pulses. “Goodbye, Fedya.”

He left the way he had come. When he looked back over his shoulder, past the garden balustrade and the darkened street, all he could see was her silhouette standing at the window, the silver-shadowed figure of Dahanian at her side, lit by the fading lamplight and the reflection of the moon caught in the glass panes.


	25. Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anatole leaves Petersburg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, this chapter was quite literally 15 seconds away from being posted last night, but then we decided we wanted to add in another scene for them parallels and we just had to do it. 
> 
> Please be advised that this chapter contains references to violence/ gore.

Gunsmoke.

Anatole’s chest burned with every inwards breath, even through the thick fabric of his sleeve, held to his mouth to stave off the taste of soot. He had heard about battle, had thought he would have had some semblance of an idea of it by now.

He hadn’t imagined this.

A clearing at the edge of a forest, scored by regiments of marching soldiers, cannons, artillery rifles, trenches hacked into the ground as if by claws. The French fell upon them rank by rank, endless rows of marching soldiers. Every inch of air sparked with danger. Before him, the earth lay smoking and scorched.

This wasn’t war, he realized now; it was Hell. Something feverish and delusional, walking through fog and screams.

Anatole had never felt so lost or out-of-place in his life. His jacket hung too broad across his shoulders, the rifle too heavy in his hands. He wasn’t meant to be here. There were men born and bred for war, and he wasn’t one of them. His world was of the opera houses and clubs and restaurants of glittering cities. Not this. Anything but this. There was shouting, and there were men calling out orders, but he heard none of it. Nothing but the dull roar of battle rolling in his ears, deafening and merciless.

Another blast rattled the clearing, a cannonshot, or a mortar shell, or God-knew-what, and Anatole startled a second too slow. The world upended itself beneath his feet. He stumbled to his knees, or perhaps the ground had simply rushed up to meet him. Around him were swarms of men, bullets whistling through the smoke-strangled air, and there was fire in the sky, and surely he was dead, and if he wasn’t already, then he would die here, and these would be his last waking moments on earth.

And then, through the chaos, a familiar name, and a voice even more familiar:

“Toto!”

Anatole whipped around. The rifle slipped from his hands, forgotten. No. That couldn’t be. Not here.

“Lena?” he said, on the exhale.

The echo of her voice answered.

Something clenched around Anatole’s heart. He was set to man this post. He couldn’t leave. Half his mind screamed for him to stay; the other called out desperately for his sister. The penalty for desertion was a firing squad. That didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter, not when Hélène was here, and shouldn’t have been, and if he had gone mad, if he was hearing things, he was a dead man either way.

Anatole stumbled forwards, through the mob, in the direction of her voice, and his left leg almost folded beneath him.

“Lena?” he called. “Lena, where are you?”

“Toto!” came the response, distant but unmistakable.

Cannonfire. Anatole’s head whipped around, searching, searching, and through the echo of mortar shells he heard Hélène’s voice on all sides, directionless, unplaceable.

Suddenly, something hard and heavy slammed into him from the side, knocking him flat to the ground. Anatole’s head collided with the earth as a cannon fired somewhere in the distance. A shell exploded above them. Screeching, then a blast of light and fire. The world roared in his ears, dust and death and sulphur.

For a long moment, silence.

Anatole opened his eyes, breathing hard. Fedya’s soot-stained face loomed above his, his hands bearing down on Anatole’s shoulders, his eyes wild and furious. The fabric of his uniform was charred and slashed through.

“Keep your head down!” he barked. “They’re still firing on us!”

Anatole went still and slack. The other soldiers moved around them, seemingly without taking notice. It was as if they couldn’t see them at all.

“Fedya?” he said, winded.

Fedya pressed himself flat across Anatole’s torso, shielding him as a wave of shrapnel and dust showered over them. Anatole smelled something metallic burning in the air.

“We have to run,” he said raggedly. “Fedya, get _up_ —”

He tried to push himself upright, up onto his elbows, he could get up, he could stand, he could _run_ , but Fedya’s weight kept him pinned.

“Hush, Tolya.”

“Fedya, for fuck’s sake—”

“We’re fine,” Fedya said, with a terrifying calmness. “I’ve got you.”

No. Here. Not here. He couldn’t stay here. He could still hear gunshots, distant but steadily growing closer, cannonfire booming through the ground like an earthquake, and all the while, Hélène’s voice somewhere shouting nonsensically. He strained to try and make out what she was saying, but all he could hear was his name, over and over again, increasingly desperate-sounding, _Toto, Toto, Toto_.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Again, he tried to move. Fedya’s hold was unbreakable.

“Lena,” he gasped. “Fedya, she’s—”

The look in Fedya’s eyes was implacable. “Lena isn’t here,” he said.

Anatole’s heart dropped to his stomach. “What?”

He was too dazed to respond as Fedya leaned in and kissed him, curling a hand in his hair, and Anatole froze, unable to think or move. Around them, the world grew quiet and still. Dimming like a candle. The ground beneath his back was no longer earth but a floor. Darkness surrounded him, muted and soft, and there was nothing in the world save for himself and Fedya.

“It’s better this way, Tolya,” Fedya breathed. “Just you and me. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“I can hear her,” he said weakly. “She’s in trouble, Fedya, we have to—”

Fedya cut him off again with his mouth, his hands gently working up and down the sides of Anatole’s body, and Anatole’s breath left him in a rush as he arched up into Fedya’s touch.

“You don’t have to worry,” Fedya murmured, kissing down his neck. The heat of his body through the open front of his jacket was almost unbearable. “I promised I’d keep you safe, didn’t I?”

Anatole sighed, thoughtless, and let his eyes drift shut. God. Was this how it felt? Gentleness?

“You’re beautiful like this,” Fedya continued. “God, you’re perfect. So good for me.”

“Fedya—”

“Shh, _luchik_. Just let me take care of you.”

Anatole whimpered as he strained up towards Fedya. So warm and soft. Safety in a person. This was how it should have been all along, he thought, through the fog. Him and Fedya, and no one else. No one else in the world…

“Toto!”

Anatole opened his eyes.

No.

He didn’t want this. He wanted—he needed Hélène.

He turned his head away, breaking the kiss. “Lena,” he said. “Fedya, we have to help—”

The rest of Anatole’s sentence caught off in a strangled gasp. Fedya’s hands had closed around his throat. A grip like iron. Anatole stiffened and his hands went to Fedya’s wrists, trying, in vain, to pull them away.

“Lena,” Fedya growled. “It’s always Lena with you, isn’t it?”

“No, Fedya, please, you’re hurting—”

“She doesn’t care about you, you know. She left you to him without speaking a word in your defense.”

“No,” he said. “No, that’s not true. She loves me more than anything.”

Fedya pressed down harder, crueler, and Anatole’s vision swam with golden sunsparks.

“You think anyone could love you? A dull, needy creature like you?”

Anatole flinched. “Fedya, please—”

“You’re pathetic. You stupid, selfish thing. All you’ve ever brought anyone is trouble. Natalie had the right idea about you. Your father sees it too. There’s something _unnatural_ about you. Something _wrong_.”

“No, no—”

Fedya’s face loomed close, furious, wild, only his eyes were brown and not green, and his beard was thick and dark, and his hair was longer and uncombed and hung past his spectacles, and the ground was the ledge of a desk pressing hard against Anatole’s back, and in his ears, echoing like Hélène’s screams, was the sound of Pierre’s voice saying, “Does this frighten—?”

Anatole woke with a gasp.

There was only darkness here, save for the faint glow of moonlight through the window, but even that was beginning to dim. Beneath him, the sheets were cold and sweat-damp. His bedroom.

Anatole pulled his knees up to his chin and folded over on himself as he sobbed, ugly and dry and sharp. It felt as if his chest had been crushed in. His breath stuttered and caught in his throat. This wasn’t waking; this was half-swimming through sleep, fighting to keep his head above the surface and still sinking.

This. Again. Why was this haunting him? Why wouldn’t it stop?

“Nali.” He reached out one hand, feeling blindly through the sheets, along the nightstand. “Linoshka, please, I need you.”

He didn’t need to tell her. She knew already, had already leapt into his arms and pressed her cheek against his wrist.

Anatole cradled her closer against him. Danali cocked her head in concern and scurried up his chest, nipping gently at his earlobe. “What’s wrong, Toto?”

“Night-ghast,” he whispered.

Danali chittered anxiously and clambered onto his face, licking away his tears. “Again?”

“The same one.”

“It was only a dream,” she said.

“You weren’t there this time,” he said. “You weren’t there, and I didn’t even realize it, and—”

“And it was only a dream,” she repeated firmly.

“You were g-gone.”

Danali’s little black eyes were dark and unreadable, but he felt the undercurrent of fear swelling between them, felt her little heartbeat fluttering, felt her trembling through her fur.

“I’m here,” she said, in a small voice. “No one can take you away from me. I wouldn’t allow them to.”

Anatole sniffed and nodded.

“Just try and get some sleep, Tolya,” she said gently. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.”

“Linoshka—”

“I’m right here” she said. “I won’t ever leave you. I promise.”

Anatole rolled onto his back, still holding her to his chest, and stared at the ceiling with no promise of sleep, and listened to the thrumming of a terrified heartbeat, though whether it was hers or his, he couldn’t tell.

* * *

 

Natasha had always dreamed that her wedding gown would one day be this lovely.

Ivory lace trailing along her neckline, moon-white paper feathers framing her shoulders, pearls glittering at her throat and ears like twinkling stars. She didn’t need a mirror to know how radiant she looked. In the wondrous eyes of the attendants, she saw her own beauty reflected back at her in an endless sea of mirrors.

There in the front row were her parents and Vera and Nikolai and Petya, all in their Sunday best. To their left stood Hélène and Captain Dolokhov, arm-in-arm; to their right, Sonya and Marya, flame-haired candlesticks dressed in yellow and red. Familiar faces, and those less familiar—Anna Pavlovna, Princess Mary, Boris Drubetskoy and his mother, Julie Karagina, the Mamontova princesses, cousin Pyotr Shinshin, Dunia the housemaid, Pelageya Melyukova visiting from the country, Tsar Alexander himself, his refinery incomparable to her own.

The ceiling of Saint Basil’s Cathedral rose above them all like the vaulted, frescoed heavens. Natasha walked herself down the aisle to the sound of a blaring pipe organ, and the shimmering train of her dress seemed to stretch on endlessly behind her.

Three men waited for her at the altar.

There stood Pierre, glowing gold in his mustard-yellow waistcoat, Khione at his side. Natasha thought he had never looked so handsome. His beard was neatly-trimmed and his warm brown eyes brimmed with joyful tears behind his spectacles. When she reached for his hand, he blushed and offered her a giddy smile.

“My God, Tasha,” he breathed. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”

Natasha squeezed his hand. She felt her soul drifting up to the ceiling with delight, threatening to lift her onto her toes.

Without dropping Pierre’s hand, she turned to the second groom.

Anatole looked as if he had been spun from starlight. His hair gleamed silver, his eyes so blue they were almost violet, Danali coiled around his neck with fur white as snow. Natasha’s heart swelled as he bowed and kissed her knuckles. His lips were beautifully, sinfully soft.

“Natalie, _ma belle_ ,” he murmured, in a voice like silk. “You look absolutely ravishing.”

Natasha smiled. Warmth flooded her chest, heady and intoxicating. She gazed back and forth between the two men on either side of her, both so different yet so beautiful in their own way. Pierre, her sweet soft bear, warm and gentle, strong and kind. Anatole, her dashing prince, straight out of a fairytale.

How sublime it all was. How perfect. Both of them, here for her, for only her, and she would never be this happy again.

Beaming, heart bursting with joy, Natasha turned to the third groom.

Her blood ran cold as ice when she saw who it was standing before her.

“Andrei,” she gasped.

Andrei looked back at her with dark, thickly-lashed eyes. The buttons of his uniform had been freshly-polished, and the uniform itself had been freshly-pressed, medals gleaming bronze at his breast pocket. He looked every bit as handsome as she had remembered him—the stubborn slope of his nose, the stern set of his brow, the tiniest hint of a smile that teased at the corners of his mouth.

But he may just as well have been staring at her with his ribs laid open and his heart ripped out, because when she looked to his shoulder where Eulalia always stood, she saw that he had no dæmon.

“You didn’t wait for me, Natalka,” he said, in a pained death-rattle.

A dark red stain bloomed in the middle of his chest like a gory rosebush. As she stared, it grew, and dripped down his sleeves to the floor. Red on marble. The air burned with a metallic taste.

Andrei reached for her face. Natasha tried to flinch away, but Pierre and Anatole held her fast, one on either side. Fissures and spiderweb cracks ran riot along the edges of her vision, crackling with gold, like the shattered fragments of a mirror.

“You promised,” Andrei said. “You promised me, Natalka.”

Natasha shook her head. “No,” she said. “No, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Andrei, I never meant—”

Gently, he cupped her cheek. His hand was as cold as a corpse’s.

“Don’t touch me!” she shouted.

Adrastos shot from her shoulder, through the air, up to the ceiling, and flew further still. A dart of white. Gone in an instant. Natasha felt an awful pulling sensation, then a sickening jolt, then the cold, choking crush of misery. She reached after her dæmon, but Anatole and Pierre still had her hands. The pulling deepened and intensified, the twist of a knife through her heart, and she was so cold and lonely, and the pain was too much, and—

Natasha’s own scream ripped her from her sleep as she bolted upright.

Footsteps thundered in from further down the hall, and a moment later, Sonya was at her side with a candle in one hand and Tobery running after her.

“Tasha? What’s wrong?”

Natasha clenched her hands in the bedsheets, knuckles white, chest heaving. Why couldn’t she catch her breath?

“It was him,” she said between tear-choked gasps.

A hand on her forearm. “Who?”

“It—it was Andrei. It was—”

“It wasn’t really him, Tasha, you know—”

“It was him. I _saw_ him.”

“It was a night-ghast, Tasha,” Sonya said, pulling her into a tight hug. “It was only a night-ghast.”

Natasha nodded feverishly. It wasn’t real. She knew it wasn’t real. Anatole was gone. Andrei was dead. She was marrying Pierre, and only Pierre, and not Anatole, and not Andrei, and certainly not all three.

The thought of it made her skin crawl with self-loathing and regret.

“I know,” she said.

Natasha realized that she was still trembling. Gooseflesh ran up and down her arms, despite the warmth of the room.

“Perhaps I should call Marya,” said Sonya.

Not Marya. Marya would fuss and snoop and pry, and then Natasha would have to explain everything from Andrei to Pierre to Anatole—Anatole, God help her—and Marya would fly into a murderous rage or panic and drag her to see a psychic or a priest or both, and the thought of it all made her want to burrow back in her sheets and scream until she couldn’t any more.

“No,” she croaked. “No, Sonya, please don’t—”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

Again, in her mind’s eye, she saw the bloodied gown, pearls and paper feathers dripping with scarlet. Her breath came short. In three quick, deliberate strides, she closed the distance between herself and the armoire and flung its doors open with a floor-rattling bang.

The dress and veil were unstained, pristine and white as they day they had been bought, smelling faintly of cedarwood and lilies. Natasha allowed herself to exhale. She turned around, still trembling, and leaned back against the armoire.

“You haven’t told me everything,” Sonya said. “I know you haven’t.”

A sob hitched high in Natasha’s chest. She screwed her eyes shut and shook her head.

Sonya took another step forward and took Natasha’s hands in her own. “Tell me, Tasha. I only want to help.”

“You can’t—no, I can’t tell—”

“I won’t tell a soul,” she said quietly. “I promise. You trust me, don’t you?”

Natasha wiped her eye on the sleeve of her nightgown. The room began to spin around her in dizzy, frantic circles. She laid a hand over her chest, where her heart beat loudest, and struggled to calm her breath. “I made a dreadful mistake, Sonya. A dreadful, terrible mistake.”

Sonya drew in a sharp breath. In the flickering candlelight, her face grew pale. “Tasha?”

Natasha leaned forwards and held her face in her hands. Her fingers convulsed violently. “That day, before—back in February, when we looked into the mirrors with the candles, I saw a person without their dæmon.”

Sonya flinched. Her eyes were very, very wide. “A severed human?”

Natasha nodded. “I saw it again, just now. It was Andrei this time. Eulalia was gone. And—and then Adrastos flew off. He took off and left, and he wouldn’t—wouldn’t come back. I _felt_ it, Sonya. J-just like in the mirrors—”

“It wasn’t real, Tasha. It never was. Whatever you saw there, it wasn’t real, it couldn’t have been.”

“Oh, God,” Natasha wailed into her hands, sinking to the floor. “What—what if I damned myself? What if—?”

Sonya sat beside her. “What do you mean, ‘damned yourself’?”

“It was witchcraft, wasn’t it? Looking into the future, seeing things before they came to pass. What were you _thinking_ , Sonya?”

“It wasn’t,” said Sonya. “It was a game, just a harmless little game—”

“But it came true! And everything that’s happened, everything that’s gone wrong, it’s all because of the bloody _mirrors_ —!”

Natasha’s voice cut out with a sudden soul-wrenching cry. She curled over on herself and allowed the sobs to overtake her. She wept until all the air had been crushed from her lungs, until all the strength had sapped from her arms and fingers, until there was no sound left to be wrenched from her throat.

“Andrei,” she whimpered. Pathetic and high, like an injured bird.

“It wasn’t real,” Sonya murmured, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Andrei’s gone, Tasha. It was only a night-ghast.”

Natasha drew her hands along her face. At their feet, Tobery curled himself around Adrastos, and the room warmed through as if the sun had shown its face through the curtains.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha said, leaning her head against Sonya’s shoulder.

Sonya wiped her tears with the hems of her sleeves. “No, no.”

“Please don’t tell Marya. Please.”

“I won’t if you don’t want me to. I promise.”

Natasha gave a shuddering sigh and leaned back against the wall, drawing her knees under her chin. Sonya took her hand again, rubbing small circles along her knuckles. They sat quietly for a while. One minute turned to five. The clock down the hall gave an impatient tick.

Finally, Sonya broke the silence.

“It was a silly little game,” she said. “I read about it in a book of Marya’s. People used to think it would show them their futures. But we know better than that now. We know it’s not true.”

Not true. Natasha ran the pad of her thumb over her fingernails, steady and rigid as a nervous tic. The words revolved around in her head. Nonsense. Not true. Not Andrei.

“What did you see?” she asked, more whisper than words. “That day, in the mirrors? What did it show you?”

Sonya squeezed Natasha’s hand and turned her head to the window. In the feeble glow of the candle, her profile was lit with honey, like an illuminated painting. Her eyes were wide, warm brown and gold-flecked. Natasha had always been able to read her cousin’s eyes like an open book. But now they were sad, distant, brushed with a faint touch of frost, the way Andrei’s always had been.

Natasha wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that.

“I saw a city burning,” Sonya said, the fear in her eyes slipping into her voice. “All of Moscow, gone up in flames. So I knew right away, it couldn’t have been real.”

* * *

 

Anatole left Petersburg the next morning.

The family had gathered in the front hall to send him off and say their goodbyes. Vasily was to see him off to the rail station, to the train that would bring him to the front line, to the war, to God-knew-where.

Away.

Hélène felt as though she were sleepwalking, limbs made of ice, mind whirring through a disbelieving fog. She had been twenty-four when Anatole had first left. No front to defend. No _Grande Armée_ marching on Russia. The two of them, sent off together, him to Warsaw, her to Moscow. A banishment on both counts. There had been a sort of camaraderie in that.

And now she was alone again.

Anatole, standing before them at the foot of the staircase, was pale as a ghost, save for the dark rings under his eyes. Hélène doubted he had slept at all the night before. The green of his jacket made his face hollow and sickly. He hadn’t bothered to style his hair, and it fell around his eyes, making him look younger. Too young.

Aline cupped Anatole’s face in her hands and kissed his forehead. “Oh, my little boy,” she said raggedly, her eyes red-rimmed from days on end of crying. “Be safe, _moyo solnyshko_. I’ll be praying for you. I’ll light a candle for you in Church every Sunday. I promise.”

“Thank you, Mama,” Anatole said softly.

Aline kissed him again and refused to let go for a long while.

“That’s enough, Aline,” said Vasily. “Don’t smother the boy.”

Aline blinked wetly as she drew back. Galian, curled at her shoulder, gave a pained chitter. “Write us when you arrive, alright?”

Anatole nodded. “I will.”

“Well then, we ought to be on our way,” Vasily said, taking Anatole’s wrist. “Come along, Anatole.”

Anatole turned to Vasily and pulled his arm back. Anger flashed, hard and cold, in his eyes. Hélène had never seen her brother angry at Vasily before. Hadn’t thought he had room in him for more than fear. But there it was, clawing under the surface, terror and hatred and misery all in one. Hélène understood him, in that moment, better than she had in twenty-four years.

Hélène was not all that sure she enjoyed understanding.

“I have to say goodbye to my sister first,” said Anatole, in a hard, sharp voice.

Vasily recovered quickly. “Very well. Quickly, now.”

Anatole swallowed, nodded, turned to Hélène, and began, “Lena—”

Hélène threw her reservations to the wind and flung her arms around Anatole’s waist and pulled him close, holding him as tightly as she could, one hand between his shoulders, the other in his hair, and pressed her face to his chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Vasily’s face darken, and a well of vengeful pride rose in her chest.

“I love you, Tolya,” she murmured.

He squeezed her a little tighter. Through his shirt and waistcoat, he shivered. “I love you too.”

“Well then,” Vasily said, clearing his throat. “We’ve a train to catch.”

Silently, Anatole moved to pull away, but Hélène squeezed his hand, three times in rapid succession. Anatole returned the gesture a heartbeat later. Their eyes caught for a moment.

Vasily placed his hand on Anatole’s shoulder to steer him away from Hélène. The porters gathered their things and led them off to the front door, their silhouettes lit from outside by the early-morning sunlight. It looked as if Anatole had shrunk a few inches. Or Vasily had grown. Or perhaps Hélène was only seeing them clearly for the first time.

Anatole turned his head back to her, and then the door swung shut behind him. Hélène had gone cold all over.

“I’m sorry,” Aline whispered. She turned on her heel and dashed up the stairs, sniffling and hiccupping all the way, until she reached the landing and dissolved into tears. Hélène heard a door slam shut above her head, and the house went silent again.

They were alone now. Her hand came to a rest unthinkingly at the back of Dahanian’s neck.

“Are you afraid for them?” he asked.

 _Of course I am_ , she thought. _I’m petrified_. _I’m so scared it hurts down to my bones_.

“Not at all,” she said.

Dahanian regarded the door intently. “I’m afraid,” he said.

Hélène sat at the foot of the stairwell next to him. Her skirts pooled around her ankles, and she shifted her legs to tuck them beneath her. “They’ll be alright. I’m certain of it.”

“You’re a god-awful liar, Lena.”

“They will.”

Dahanian didn’t respond to that. Instead, he leaned his head against her knee with a quiet purr, and the two of them sat in the darkening hall in silence, hoping that somehow, they might be able to hear Anatole’s footsteps as they faded off into the distance.


	26. The Mystical Union

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very happy day for Natasha and Pierre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with us through this behemoth of a fic! (And no, this is not a *hint* that we're anywhere near coming to an end.) We <3 our readers lots and lots.
> 
> Also everyone give a MASSIVE round of applause to the amazing and brilliant and wonderful @MaplePaizley, who was accepted into law school this week!!! :D

“You know,” said Count Ilya Rostov, over the rim of what certainly was not his first glass of champagne that evening, “I never did imagine that one day I would be able to call Kirill’s little boy my own. And I certainly didn’t expect I’d ever have a son so much taller than me!”

The Rostovs, harried by the late notice, the carriage ride in from the country, and the first forty minutes of Ilya’s toast, laughed and lifted their glasses for the umpteenth time that night. And Natasha, sitting across the drawing room on the settee they had set out for the newlyweds, laid a hand over her heart and rubbed at her eyes.

Her father’s eyes were just as red-rimmed and watery, his smile broad and toothy, and at his shoulder sat his robin-dæmon Ottilie, little and plump and round, with a splash of orange at her throat. The top of his round grey head would have just barely brushed the tip of Pierre’s beard had they stood close enough to touch.

“I couldn’t have prayed for a better match for my daughter,” he continued. “May you bring each other joy for the rest of your lives.”

Pierre reached for Natasha’s hand and squeezed it. Natasha smiled and kissed his fingers, leaving a smudge of rouge on his knuckles that Pierre touched wondrously. Natasha, his angel. Natasha, his _wife_.

This evening, she was otherworldly. A vision in snow-white silk, plump and rosy-cheeked and utterly glowing. Her sleek black hair hung loose, clipped back at the temples with a mother-of-pearl brooch. When he had first seen her at the end of the aisle, Pierre had thought for a moment that the lenses of his spectacles had turned to mercury-glass, and he had had to turn away to compose himself. She had felt too bright, too radiant to look at directly, like the sun itself.

Now, though. Now he could have gazed at her all night.

“To marriage!” Ilya finished, raising his glass until it threatened to spill.

The room burst into applause. Nikolai and Petya clinked their glasses together. Vera rolled her eyes. And Marya Dmitrievna, who had started to look impatient about halfway into Ilya’s speech, removed a small flask from her skirt pocket and took a long swig, covertly passing it to Sonya when she was finished.

Natasha rose to her feet as Ilya staggered over to the settee. He swept Natasha into a hug, saying in between sniffles, “Oh, my little girl. My little Natalenka. My littlest girl.”

“Papa,” Natasha laughed wetly.

Ilya kissed her forehead. “I love you so much, my dove. So, so much.”

“I love you too, Papa.”

Natasha stepped back, wiping her eyes, hiccuping and smiling. Ilya turned to Pierre next, his arms open, and gestured for Pierre to step forwards. “Come here, son. You’re one of us now.”

Pierre blushed down to the roots of his hair and stumbled into his embrace. Ilya laughed and clapped him on the back, harder than his size would have let on.

If he had had a say in who his father was, Pierre thought, he imagined he would have chosen someone like this. Daft and doting. Warm-humored. Kirill Bezukhov had been reserved at best, cold at worst. Nothing at all like this. Was it any wonder Natasha was such a happy person when her family was this loving?

“Now for the shots!” called Ilya, stepping back. “Vodka for the newlyweds!”

Nikolai swept two glasses, already full, off the side table and pushed them into their hands. Pierre, who had sworn off alcohol the night after he had proposed, had discreetly filled his own glass with water. Natasha, wrinkling her nose at the bottle of vodka, had done the same. She winked as they raised their glasses to each other. An old tradition, meant to take the bitterness out of married life.

It mustn’t have worked properly the first time around, Pierre mused.

Everything about that night, from the ektenia to the crowning to the toasts, had been humiliating to the point of misery. At the reception, Hélène had fed him shots until he couldn’t stand or see straight. He had woken up the next morning sprawled across the sofa with his cravat untucked and his shoes missing, and she had greeted him at breakfast with an icy gleam in her eye and a peculiar timbre in her voice that he later came to realize was distaste.

But that had been then, and this was now. Laying eyes on Natasha again, Pierre’s heart swelled with joy until it threatened to burst. Their wedding thus far had been a quiet affair, rushed, so hurriedly-prepared he was surprised Marya hadn’t called a scandal.

And it was absolutely perfect that way.

They downed their glasses in one mouthful. Pierre screwed his eyes shut and pretended to grimace. It wasn’t a hard act to pull off.

“ _Gorko, gorko, gorko_!” shouted the guests. _Bitter, bitter, bitter._

There was no bitterness in this kiss. The room cheered, and Pierre, giddy and flushed, wrapped his arms around Natasha’s waist and swept her off her feet. Natasha laughed into the kiss and threw her arms around his neck. She smelled of vanilla and lilies. Warmth and joy and life in every inch of her.

When he set her down, it was too soon. He could have held her there for the rest of the night, for the rest of eternity, and forgotten that the rest of the world existed.

Natasha, as if reading his thoughts, snarled one hand in his cravat and pulled him down for another kiss. He heard Marya laughing and felt his cheeks burn.

“You look so handsome tonight,” whispered Natasha, tears glittering in her eyes.

They drew away again, without breaking their hold on each other’s hands, and turned back to face the crowd—if you could call it that, which you really couldn’t, with the room not even filled halfway. Pierre realized that the lenses of his spectacles were still blurred-over from the rain, and he hastily wiped them on the hem of his waistcoat, and the room grew blurry and gold, as if he were looking at it underwater. Every bit beautiful as it was warm.

Ilya chuckled and clapped his hands together, prodding the others along into an afterthought of an applause. “More toasts!” he said, and half the room stopped clapping to grimace at the thought of further delay. “Who’d like to go next?”

“Ilya, really, wouldn’t it be best if we served dinner now?” asked Natalya the elder.

Sonya, who until now had been lingering off to the side of the room, pale and flushed with champagne in her pastel-blue gown, stepped forwards and said, “I’d like to give a toast.”

The room quieted again, with pointed unease. Sonya shifted uncomfortably under their eyes. “I’ll only keep it brief,” she said. “I promise.”

Natalya the elder sniffed. “You really shouldn’t feel that you have to, Sofia.”

“For heaven’s sake, Natalya, let the girl speak,” said Marya.

Sonya took her place, slightly off-center in the room, and cleared her throat nervously. Her cat-dæmon rubbed against the hem of her skirt with a quiet purr.

“Thank you, Uncle Ilya, for that marvelous toast. I can’t imagine anything I say will come close to it. But I think I’ve had a glass of champagne too many, so I’ll take a stab at it anyway.”

Ilya waved her down with a hand over his heart.

Sonya turned to Natasha and began, “Tasha, it’s the greatest honor in life to call you my sister”—Vera and Natalya the elder scoffed—“and I love you more than life. You’re a beautiful soul, Tasha. So beautiful.” She paused for a moment, and her face grew pinker with every second, as if she were on the verge of bursting into tears. Pierre couldn’t blame her. Half the room was too, Natasha most of all.

“I’m so proud of you. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect match for you than Pierre. And not for the money. I know how much you love him. I know how happy he makes you. And you deserve— _hic_ —every bit of happiness in the world.”

Natalya the elder did not look pleased in the slightest.

“And you won’t lose me just because you’re married, alright?” said Sonya. “Wherever I am, whatever becomes of us, you’ll always have a home with me. I promise.”

“Sonya,” Natasha said, her voice hitching.

There came a loud, wet sniffle that Pierre realized a moment later had come from him. Khione pressed her head against his shoulder. Marya pulled a handkerchief from her breast pocket and offered it in his direction, sniffling and red-eyed herself. “Here, old friend,” she said. “I think you need this more than I do.”

Pierre nodded, too choked up to speak, and dabbed at his eyes.

Marya smiled as she watched Natasha and Sonya embrace. “My girls,” he heard her whisper, which nearly drove him to tears again.

“They’re wonderful,” Pierre said quietly. “Both of them.”

Marya nodded. “They are. I’m a very lucky godmother.”

Pierre paused—he had thought Natasha was the only goddaughter—but Marya sounded so earnest and joyful that he accepted it without question.

And Marya Dmitrievna was not the sort of woman to be questioned, either way.

“Time for the gifts!” said Natalya the elder, rapping the floor with her cane. “Ilya, fetch ours, would you?”

Ilya nodded and scurried off. He came back, a moment later, carrying a fine mahogany box embossed with the word _Lomonosov_. Natalya pulled open the latch and lifted the lid. Inside, lined with red velvet, lay a beautiful porcelain tea set painted with white birds and dancing bears. Pierre thought of every cup he had ever shattered, every plate he had ever chipped, and decided that he would never so much as lay a finger on it.

“Oh, Mama, it’s lovely,” Natasha said.

“It’s not much,” said Natalya the elder apologetically. “We hope it’s enough to get the two of you started, at least.”

“Not that you really need our help, eh, Pierre?” quipped Ilya.

Pierre’s face grew hot. Nikolai and Petya guffawed.

Natalya quickly silenced her husband with a sharp, “Ilya, really, darling.”

Natasha’s siblings gathered around her next, a flock of dark-haired birds, jostling each other to get close to her. Vera eventually shooed Petya off and stepped forwards to take Natasha by the elbows. They shared the same large black eyes and delicate features, though Vera’s face was more pointed, and Natasha was a good few inches taller than her older sister.

“We’re so happy for you, Natalya,” Vera said, kissing Natasha’s cheek. “You’ve made us all very proud.”

“Thank you,” Natasha said, as she returned the gesture.

Vera turned her eyes on Pierre, still addressing Natasha. “It’s so wonderful to have days like this to lift everyone’s spirits. I can only hope you keep in mind those of us whose husbands are away, keeping us safe.”

Vera was smiling, but the cut of her words was as cold as ice. Pierre bristled, disquieted, as his eyes darted back and forth between the two sisters and the tension rising between them, thick enough to touch.

“Do you really have to do this?” Natasha said quietly.

“What?” said Vera. “I’m not saying anything that isn’t true.”

“Why can’t you just be happy for me? Why do you have to make this about yourself?”

“It’s not about me. It’s about all of us. It’s about our family and our country and our people.”

“This is meant to be a happy day for me. I don’t want to spend it—”

Vera laughed bitterly, cutting her off. “Every day is happy for you. Why should tonight be any different?”

“Oh, don’t be so miserable, Verochka,” said Nikolai, nudging Vera in the side. “We ought to get a shot in you.”

“Or twelve,” added Petya.

Vera flushed and pulled away from Nikolai. Her swan-dæmon gave an indignant hiss. “You two are acting like such children.”

“And you’re being rude,” said Sonya.

“This is a family matter, Sofia,” snapped Vera. “It’s not any of your business.”

“Vera,” Natasha said warningly.

Vera spoke over her, still glaring at Sonya. “What would you know anyway? You wouldn’t understand. You don’t even have a husband.”

Sonya’s eyes darted to Nikolai, who quickly turned the other way, and Sonya’s face crumpled in humiliation.

“You’re absolutely horrid, you know,” Natasha snapped. “I wish you hadn’t come at all.”

“Of course you do. You don’t care about me. You never have. None of you ever have.” Vera’s voice hitched wetly. “Only Alphonse does.”

“You know that’s not—”

“I haven’t heard from him in months, you know. He hasn’t responded to any of my letters. I’ve no idea where he is, or whether he’s alive or dead or dying.”

A twinge of guilt shot through Pierre’s heart. He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol for weeks, and yet in an instant, he felt more sober than he had been in his entire life.

“Vera,” Natasha began guiltily.

“Not all of us have been lucky enough to have perfect lives, Natalya. It might do you some good to remember that there are other people in the world besides yourself.”

Silence, deafening and torturous, fell. Marya and Natalya both looked on in a mixture disapproval and concern. Ilya, distracted by the spectacle and drunker than he probably realized, upended his newest glass of champagne out onto the carpet.

Vera wiped her eyes furiously. “Perhaps I ought to excuse myself,” she snapped.

Natasha reached for her hand. “Vera, please—”

But Vera’s swan-dæmon had already flapped his way into her arms, and she was halfway down the corridor, a flutter of navy velvet, and gone a moment later. The others stared silently. Ilya flushed scarlet and dropped into a crouch and dabbed at the new champagne stain with the hem of the tablecloth.

Pierre turned to Natasha, who had started to quietly cry. Adrastos bristled at her shoulder and gently tugged at her hair.

“Are you alright, Tasha?” he murmured, touching her shoulder.

Natasha sighed and laid her hand atop his. “I’m fine, Petrushka, really. She’s always been like this.”

“Are you sure—?”

“Yes. Come now. I won’t have this ruin our night.”

The band swept into a lively harmonic three-time, at Natalya’s behest, and Pierre and Natasha and the other remaining attendants rounded the floor for the newlyweds’ first dance. But an air of uncertainty had settled over the room, and even as Natasha took Pierre’s hand and led him to the circle into a mazurka, he couldn’t shake the coldness of Vera Rostova’s voice, or the fear in her eyes, or the sinking feeling that something dreadful was slowly creeping closer and closer, looming over their heads like a shadow.


	27. A Troops Barracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anatole and Fedya are having a difficult time finding their footing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be advised that this chapter contains references to violence, sexual harassment and attempted sexual assault.

Fedya had enlisted in the Army at seventeen. A child, really, eager to escape the misery of Kushva and aching for distraction, a set of instructions to follow, a reprieve from civilian life. If there had been no sense in it—and there was never any sense in war, as far as Fedya was concerned—then there had been a certain feeling of purpose. A person could grow comfortable settling into that rhythm, which he had.

Some days earlier, Fedya’s regiment had decamped in the outskirts of a city called Vitebsk, where the _Grande Armée_ stood poised to overrun the Russian border. A few forts, a trenchrow, and a river were all that stood in between them and the French. The distance between them was shrinking, and every inch of it crackled with danger. It wouldn’t be all that long before things came to blows.

The night before his first battle, Fedya had emptied a bottle of vodka to blunt his nerves and steady his shaking hands. Now, he felt no need to. But the thought of having to manage the new recruits, hastily shipped out with hardly half a month of training between them, was enough to make him grow stiff with dread.

And Sergeant Vaska Denisov, despite it all, still had the foolishness to be in good spirits.

Fedya had met Denisov during his deployment to the Caucasus as a newly-enlisted officer. That first night, circled around the campfire with the other petty officers, Denisov had fleeced him in a game of cards, and the next night, Fedya had fleeced him right back and then some. Their friendship, to use the term loosely, had staggered along in a similar fashion ever since, until Fedya was released from active service and went on reserve to Moscow.

It had been a while since they had sat down for a round of Boston together.

Now, in Denisov’s tent, lit by a roaring naphtha lamp, Fedya stared down at the cards laid out on the table in front of him, eyeing each the way he would the disassembled parts of a revolver. The odds weren’t stacked in his favor this evening. Denisov, who must have realized the same thing, chuckled and shook his head.

“You look worried, old friend,” he said.

“Course I am,” said Fedya, without lifting his eyes. “You should see the hand I’ve been dealt.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were losing your touch. Don’t tell me Moscow has softened up the assassin.”

Denisov spoke smoothly, apart from the strange garbled way he pronounced his r’s, as if his tongue couldn’t quite seem to mangle itself into position, but Fedya didn’t have the heart to mock that. He wasn’t in the mood to have the lights knocked out of him again. Not this sober, at any rate.

“Stupid name,” he said instead.

Denisov laughed. He would, thought Fedya. The nickname had been his invention.

Denisov’s dæmon, an English badger called Madge, clambered onto his lap to peer over the table.

“Quite the hand we’ve got, Madgie,” Denisov said quietly, touching her head, his other hand fiddling with his thick dark mustache.

Madge sniffed at the air. “Can’t be much worse than his.”

“Cheating again?” said Fedya.

Samira gave an amused exhale that wasn’t quite forceful enough to be a laugh.

“It’s hardly cheating,” said Denisov, more entertained than offended.

“And if I had my dæmon looking over your shoulder to see your cards it wouldn’t be cheating either, eh?”

Denisov had just opened his mouth to respond when from outside the tent, they heard a round of laughing and cheering and whistling, like the cacophony of a Muscovite club.

“What’s that?” Fedya asked, as if Denisov would know.

But Denisov just clucked and shook his head. “You know how new recruits get. Wouldn’t be surprised if Kuragin’s already stirring up trouble.”

“What?”

“Corporal Kuragin. From Petersburg.” His blue eyes darted up. “The blond one you keep staring at. I think the boy’s starting to earn a reputation.”

Fedya’s hands tightened around his cards. At his feet, Samira’s tail flicked restlessly. “Oh, really?”

“I heard he has quite a talent for imitating his superiors. I have to admit, his impression of Sergeant Komarovsky is dead-on. I’ve seen it myself.”

This, he really should have expected. Anatole the comedian was insufferable enough for a night out at the bar, but here, they would crucify him if he wasn’t careful about it. And _careful_ didn’t appear to be in Anatole’s lexicon.

“I wasn’t aware joke-telling was now considered troublesome behavior.”

Denisov smiled gingerly, his mustache curling as he did. “It can be, depending on who’s the butt of the joke.”

“It’s no skin off my back if he talks himself into trouble.”

“Well, you might want to start listening to some of the rumors.”

Fedya’s skin went cold all over.

Denisov continued, with evident caution, “They say he’s been...ah, extorting _favors_ from superior officers.”

Jealousy flashed through him, hot as anger. Of course. Why had he expected anything less? Stupid, thoughtless Anatole, who needed attention more than air. In Poland, when they had first met, he had thrown himself into Fedya’s bed over a bottle of vodka. Fedya suspected—no, _knew_ —that there had been other men Anatole had charmed while on deployment. Whether for pleasure or for favors, or both, it didn’t matter.

Nothing had changed. No lesson had been learned there.

“That’ll go badly for him,” he said, trying to force a casual air into his voice.

Denisov paused. Fedya could see the gears and cogs whirring in his head, working out what to say next. Never a good sign. It was the sort of look he only gave before delivering an irritatingly pointed and unwelcome piece of advice.

“I understand that you’re looking out for him,” he said, “but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned.”

“I don’t need your concern,” snapped Fedya.

“Dolokhov—”

“And I’m not looking out for anyone but myself.”

“One word in the wrong ear, and it’s your reputation on the line. And you haven’t exactly been subtle about it either.”

“I don’t know what you’re accusing me of.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. But I’ve never known you to learn the new recruits’ names so quickly. Or so selectively.”

Fedya shrugged, shame burning in his face. “I met him in Moscow. I’m acquainted with his sister.”

Denisov sighed. “What the hell are you doing getting tangled up with aristocrats?”

“If you’d met the sister, you’d understand,” Fedya said drily.

Denisov shook his head in defeat. “You’ve never been sensible where women are concerned.”

“There’s never any sense where women are concerned.”

By now, the laughter had turned to shouting. Angry-sounding. And worse, familiar. Fedya turned his head to the flap of the tent, where the voices were loudest. He didn’t have to look. He knew immediately.

Anatole.

Denisov moved to set another card on the table, but Fedya had already shot to his feet, shucking on his coat, stalking out of the tent and across the field with Samira following at his heels.

“Where are you going?” Denisov called after him. “Dolokhov, you jackass, we still have half the deck left!”

* * *

 

In fairness, Anatole hadn’t directly set out to antagonize Sergeant Komarovsky. Deployment and training had frayed his nerves down to the quick, and he was desperate for an outlet. If he wanted to have a bit of fun, Anatole thought, he was damn well entitled to it, and it wasn’t his fault the old dog couldn’t take a joke.

And it has been a harmless joke, really. A re-telling of one of Komarovsky’s oft-touted war stories—with a few of his own inventive twists, of course—complete with an admittedly unflattering imitation of the sergeant’s strong Muscovite accent and paunch. He’d had his fellow recruits crying with laughter about five minutes in.

Six minutes in, Komarovsky himself had walked by and shouted for _monsieur l’emcee_ to kindly come along with him.

Anatole was very much reminded of the night he and Fedya and Hvostikov and Makarin had tossed a police officer and his bear-dæmon into the Moskva. It had been a good laugh, until the waterlogged officer had shouted for the constable, and Hélène had had to rush to the prison to bribe the bailiff to spare the lot of them from the Magistrate.

But Hélène wasn’t here, and Hvostikov and Makarin had been deployed months earlier to the Polish front, and Anatole had made a point of avoiding Fedya like the plague since disembarking from the train, and God only knew where he was now.

Komarovsky, however, was very much here.

“You think you’re a comedian, eh?” he growled, one hand fisted in Anatole’s collar.

He was no more than three or so inches taller than Anatole, but the difference was staggering. Facing down Komarovsky, Anatole may just as well have been opposing a mountain. Impossible, and absurdly terrifying. And as things stood, Anatole’s own feet were almost no longer touching the ground.

“It was only a joke,” he protested. “I never meant to—”

Komarovsky shook him, hard enough that Anatole’s teeth rattled. “I’ll teach you to laugh at me, you insolent brat. I’ll have you whipped till you can’t stand. I’ll—”

“Sergeant Komarovsky, if I may,” cut in a familiar voice.

Komarovsky turned his head without releasing Anatole. Fedya stood off to the side, hands clasped behind his back like a waiter and a face utterly devoid of emotion. Anatole’s first and only thought, other than a dull sense of relief, was that his beard had regrown with impressive speed.

“I’m a bit busy at the moment, if you don’t mind,” said Komarovsky. His dæmon, a green-and-grey parrot, ruffled her feathers in displeasure.

Fedya kept his tone cool and measured. “This corporal is in my regiment, Sergeant. I’d like to request permission to discipline him myself.”

At last, the hand in his collar loosened. Anatole caught himself before he could fall to the ground.

“Very well,” said Komarovsky. Then, to Anatole, low and warning, he said, “Stay out of my sight, boy.”

Anatole swallowed. Komarovsky stalked off through the small crowd of onlookers who had gathered in this end of the clearing, shoving one aside by the shoulder, as he stormed away. The recruits quickly swarmed in on themselves again to fill the path he had cleared. Anatole stared, vaguely amused, until he heard Fedya begin to speak in a low, angry whisper.

“I let you out of my sight for an hour. Is it really so much to ask that you keep your head down? Do I have to put you on a fucking leash?”

Anatole raised an eyebrow. “Can’t say I would mind if you did, _mon cher_.”

Fedya’s face reddened indignantly. Samira growled in the back of her throat. “I’m ordering you to leave, Corporal Kuragin. Make yourself useful somewhere else.”

 _Corporal Kuragin_. How ridiculous it sounded in Fedya’s voice.

“Yes, sir,” Anatole said, letting petulance color his voice.

Fedya scowled and turned away. Without thinking, but certainly not without enjoyment, Anatole leaned over and slapped his backside.

From the audience there came a wolf-whistle and a smattering of applause. Anatole allowed his smirk to grow until it was nearly a sneer. Fedya whirled around, scarlet, and fisted one hand in Anatole’s collar. His other hand curled into a fist. Anatole flinched back, despite himself, bracing for a blow.

But Fedya never touched him. His eyes were cold, calculating. Anatole was reminded, rather pointedly, why he had been making an effort to avoid Fedya, and couldn’t stop the shiver that ran down his spine.

Fedya pulled him in close, his lips to Anatole’s ear. “If you fuck up again, I’ll throw you right back to Komarovsky and let him knock some sense into you himself. Understood?”

Anatole nodded. He was used to seeing Fedya angry. There was a time he had relished it, chased after it, provoked it for his own delight. But there was nothing enticing in this. Anatole leaned away as far as Fedya’s hand would allow, and a moment later, Fedya stepped back and shoved Anatole aside. He turned to the other men, arms crossed. At his side, Samira snarled, baring her teeth.

“Off with you lot,” Fedya barked. “If I find a single one of you late for roll call, I’ll see this platoon doing laundry for the entire company.”

The eavesdroppers dispersed in hurried silence. Anatole hung back, face burning in embarrassment, and watched as Fedya left. If he looked hard enough, he may just as well have been able to see furious curlicues of smoke rising from Fedya’s head.

“Rude,” Danali murmured, from the breast pocket of his jacket.

Anatole pressed his mouth into a grim line. “Are you surprised?”

“He’s changed,” Danali continued. “I don’t remember him being this angry all the time. This isn’t him.”

“I think it is,” said Anatole. “This has always been him.”

He shifted his weight to the side, and something underfoot gave a sharp prod. A pebble must have somehow worked its way into his shoe. Well, Anatole mused, Komarovsky and Fedya included, this was still better than Poland.

He sighed and sat down. His hands shook as he tugged his boot off, buzzing with a frenetic sort of energy that he had first attributed to lack of sleep. He wasn’t entirely sure of that now. His fingers fumbled at the knot in the laces, then the buckle, for longer than they should have.

Even through the thick wool of his socks, his feet ached, blistered and sore from the long morning trek. When he tipped his boots upside-down, out fell a few small rocks and bits of gravel.

“Christ,” said Danali. “You’ve been walking around with half of Russia in your shoes.”

Anatole shook his head, stuffed his feet back into his boots, and began to lace them up.

“Did you see that?” said a voice, from somewhere over his shoulder.

“Shameless,” responded another. “Flaunting it, really.”

Anatole’s back stiffened. His hands stopped moving for a moment. He was used to the ribbing, had heard enough comments of this nature by now already, but usually they at least had the courtesy of mocking him to his face.

“You know how it goes,” said the first voice. “He’s lucky he’s pretty.”

Still tucked away in his pocket, Danali gave an indignant hiss. Anatole gently flicked her nose to quiet her.

“They’re being rude,” she said.

“It’s not worth it,” he whispered. “There’s four of them and two of us.”

“Coward.”

“Hush.”

Anatole rose to his feet, dusting off the back of his trousers, and set off towards the line of tents. Danali scurried to his shoulder and tucked herself beneath the collar of his shirt.

“You should talk to him,” she said sternly. “I think you’ve really upset him this time.”

“Doesn’t take much with him.”

“Still.”

“I’ll apologize once roll call’s over. Alright?”

Danali gave a quiet huff. “Alright.”

Anatole turned, but just as quickly halted in his tracks. Two men were following him, vaguely familiar. Perhaps they had been among the audience while he was entertaining. They were officers, so their dæmons were dogs, but lesser officers, so lesser dogs. One a Sakhalin husky—a colonel—and the other a Russian spaniel—a private.

“A moment of your time, Corporal, if we could,” said the colonel.

Anatole considered this for a moment. He really would rather have gone back to his tent for some peace and quiet, but he wasn’t sure it was a wise choice to push his luck with his superior officers twice in one day. Certainly not now, when Fedya’s patience was wearing to nothing.

Better to humor them instead.

“Gentlemen,” he said smoothly. “What can I do for you?”

The colonel gestured towards himself. “Come. Take a walk with us.”

Anatole hesitated for a moment before stepping forwards. The colonel looped an arm around his shoulders. It could have been fraternal, were it not for the hard edge of his mouth and the gleam of spite in his eyes, or the way Danali recoiled at the sight of the husky.

“Rough time settling in, eh?” he said.

“I suppose.”

“You know, the last officer who spoke back to Sergeant Komarovsky was whipped for his troubles.”

“Twenty lashings, if I recall correctly,” said the private.

There was something mocking in his voice. Even Anatole, oblivious as he was, didn’t miss it. Nor did the colonel, who laughed under his breath.

“Yes,” Anatole said tightly, “I suppose I’m lucky.”

“You certainly have a way with people. I’d be keen on learning some of your tricks.”

“No tricks to be had, _messieurs_ ,” said Anatole.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” he said lightly.

Anatole drew his shoulders tight, shrinking in on himself, and the colonel steered him along without breaking pace. He looked over his shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of Fedya, but this side of the campsite was empty. No one here but the three of them.

The private chuckled. “Captain’s not here anymore, Corporal.”

Anatole’s head snapped in the private’s direction.

“We just thought we ought to commend you ourselves. Everyone says you’ll be bound for promotion once we send the frogs running back to Paris, provided you don’t piss Komarovsky off again. You’ve truly managed to impress your superiors.”

“Why don’t you show us how?” said the colonel.

Of all the propositions Anatole had received in his twenty-four years, this was among the most offensively inartistic, perhaps almost as bad as the older woman at Matreshka’s who, having mistaken him for one of the madam’s boys, had drunkenly approached him with a fistful of rubles and the offer of a private room.

“This really is awfully forward of you, Colonel,” he said, drawing his elbows in. “Usually I expect people to at least buy me dinner first.”

The colonel gave a short laugh. “From what we’ve heard, it doesn’t take nearly that much with you.”

Anatole stiffened, half at the dig, and half at the fact that now they were nearing the edge of the camp. That wasn’t good. He didn’t like that, whatever it meant. He dug his heels into the ground, but then there was a hand at the small of his back pushing him forwards, and he stumbled over his own feet.

“Really, gentlemen,” he said, “I have somewhere to be.”

“What’s the rush?” said the private. “Is the captain expecting you? I’m sure he won’t mind if we borrow you for a bit.”

The colonel chuckled. “He doesn’t even have to know.”

Danali’s claws dug into his shoulder. “No, thank you,” said Anatole, and he moved to turn away.

Before he could, a hand slid into his back pocket. “He’s a pretty little thing, isn’t he?” the colonel said to the private.

“Not bad,” said the private, jostling Anatole’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t mind getting him alone in my tent.”

Anatole glowered silently. The temptation to slap the colonel’s hand away was overwhelming. He resisted it, only just.

Then the colonel jerked his hand in, pulling Anatole closer, till his side was flush with the colonel’s, and said with a wolfish grin, “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”  

Danali hissed, baring her needle-sharp teeth. Anatole narrowed his eyes. “I beg your pardon,” he said.

“I know your sort. The opportunistic type. Eager to impress. You scratch our backs and we’ll scratch yours, eh?”

The private snickered. “Just not all at once, of course.”

Anatole may have been a coward, but he was a fool as well, and he still had some sense of honor, tarnished and vague as it was. Before common sense could kick in, he wrenched himself loose, turned around to face them, and said callously, “You peasants couldn’t afford me.”

Something hard and heavy caught him in the mouth, knocking him flat to the ground.

“ _Shit_!” he hissed. A hot rush of tears sprang to his eyes. He bit his lip. He wouldn’t cry. He refused to give them that satisfaction.

The private scoffed and nudged Anatole with the toe of his boot. “Pathetic.”

“Funnily enough,” Anatole grunted, propping himself up on his elbows, “I was about to say the same thing of you.”

The colonel straddled Anatole’s chest and pushed him down, his back flat with the earth. A pebble pressed hard against his spine.

“You really don’t know when to shut that mouth of yours, do you?” the colonel growled, his breath laced with vodka. “I’ll bet the captain keeps it busy enough.”

Anatole hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat in the colonel’s face. The colonel backhanded him with a swift, brutal slap. The world knocked off-balance. His head snapped to the side. His ears buzzed with a high ringing. In the back of his mouth he tasted blood.

“Fuck you,” he said, cheek flush against the ground.

The colonel gripped his chin and turned his face back. “You should mind your manners, Corporal. The next men you meet won’t be as good-natured as we are.”

More out of anger than sense, Anatole threw a punch. The colonel caught his wrists easily and pinned them beneath his knees.

Danali bolted. She shot past the spaniel, but the husky gave chase and leapt on her, like a hound hunting a fox. Anatole felt a horrid crushing weight press down on his chest and he fell slack against the ground.

“Stop,” he gasped. “No—let her go, you—”

“The stupid little rat,” said the private.

“She’s not a fucking rat!” Anatole howled.

Danali scratched at the dog, vicious and half-mad, till she drew blood. The colonel flinched, and then the husky threatened to press down with one paw on her throat. Anatole felt as if a pair of large, invisible hands were pinning him, pressing down on his windpipe, choking off his breath, and there was the ledge of a desk beneath his back, and Hélène was screaming, and—

“No, Kolta,” the colonel said to his dæmon. “Let them breathe.”

At last, the husky released Danali. Anatole coughed and let his head fall backwards. His chest heaved as he sucked in a long, ragged breath. The colonel sat back, looking down at him like a rabbit caught in a trap.

“You’re lucky the captain isn’t here, you sons of bitches,” hissed Anatole, breathless. “He’d have you whipped raw.”

Even now, still taunting. Christ in heaven, had he lost his mind?

“I’m sure he would, _zaichik_ ,” said the colonel, almost a purr. He slipped one hand underneath Anatole’s shirt, up his stomach. Anatole’s eyes shot wide. “But I suppose we’re all lucky today.”

Here, Anatole thought, panic shuddering through him. Of all places. Right out in the open, where everyone could have seen them, only there was no one here to see. He opened his mouth to shout for Fedya. The colonel clamped his other hand over Anatole’s lips, stopping the words before they formed. Anatole began to thrash furiously, bucking his hips, kicking at the ground like some wild animal, but there was no give, no escape, nothing at all, and the colonel only laughed and let him tire himself.

“Feisty, isn’t he?” he said to the private, who was not laughing. “Such a fiery little thing. You’ll see how long that lasts.”

His strength depleted, Anatole collapsed, breathing hard. He turned away and screwed his eyes shut. Whatever came next, he didn’t want to know.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Colonel?” the private said suddenly.

“What’s the matter, Boyko?” snapped the colonel. “I didn’t take you for a blushing prude.”

Anatole swallowed. The colonel did not remove his hands.

The private cleared his throat with obvious discomfort. “It’s only that roll call will be soon, sir. And Dolokhov will have our heads if we’re late.”

Disgruntled silence followed for a moment. Suddenly, the pressure on his chest lifted. Anatole opened his eyes. Now the colonel stood above him, dusting off his jacket, stepping aside.

“Damn you if you’re wrong,” he spat at the private.

The private flinched. His dæmon trotted behind his legs to cower. Anatole propped himself up on his elbows, knees bent, feet planted, and Danali rushed over to hide in his jacket. His heart still hadn’t slowed.

“Don’t think we’re done with you,” the colonel said, turning back to him. “Perhaps we’ll try this again when you’re in a more agreeable mood.”

Anatole didn’t dare say anything in response to that.

The colonel nudged the private in the side, and the two of them took off in the direction of the main camp. Once they were gone, Anatole pushed himself upright. He tucked the hem of his shirt back into his waistband. His head ached where it had struck the ground. In his mouth he tasted something warm and metallic. When he held a hand to his lip, where the colonel had punched him, his fingers came away smeared with blood.

“Bastards,” he murmured.

“You do remember,” Danali said irately, “that when you get hit, I feel it too.”

Anatole wiped his hand on the thigh of his trousers. “I’ll keep that in mind next time,” he snapped, lifting her to his shoulder.

“Just you wait till Fedya hears. He’ll have them drawn and quartered.”

No. If Fedya found out, he would be angry, and it would be Anatole’s fault for insulting them and goading them on, and Anatole’s fault for being wanted by someone other than Fedya, and he would never hear the end of it. If Fedya found out, he would put him on the shortest leash possible, and hound him every second of every day, and Anatole would have almost rather faced battle than have that.

Fedya wouldn’t find out, he decided, because he wouldn’t tell him. There was no need to.

“Tolya,” Danali said, nipping at his ear. “You have to tell him. What if they come back?”

Anatole buttoned up his jacket with shaking hands. Across the clearing, the sun was sinking along the horizon, and the chill of night was creeping in on all sides. “Forget it,” he snapped. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to think about it.”


	28. The Idea of Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha has a secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Us??? Doing Fluff???? More likely than you'd think folks!!! 
> 
> Please be advised that this chapter contains a brief reference to period-typical homophobia.

The morning sunlight through the eastern window cast a rectangle across the floor of the master bedroom. Natasha stood in its yellow glow as it warmed her through her dressing gown, angled sideways to the mirror, and turned her face to her reflection.

Married life quite suited her, she liked to think. These past few weeks, her skin had taken on a lovely radiant glow. The neatness of her hair, tied back with a ribbon, wouldn’t have let on the fact that she had spent the night tossing and turning, then lounged in bed for entirely too long before deciding to kick the covers off. A restful sleep, if a fitful one. Perhaps she had frightened Pierre off sometime in the night, or one of his sleepless spells had seized him again and he had quietly excused himself for an early-morning walk or retreated to his study. It wasn’t often these days she woke up alone, but common enough that she wasn’t worried for him.

Then there was the matter of her figure. Or lack thereof, she supposed.

She had always been slim. Gangly, Vera had once called her. Natasha wasn’t entirely sure she had grown into her shape yet, or that she had outgrown the unflattering nicknames. Long thin limbs, a slender neck, narrow hips, which were all the more visible as she pulled her nightgown in around the waist as tight as it would go.

“Do you see anything?” asked Adrastos from his perch on the dresser.

Natasha pursed her lips and smoothed one hand over her stomach, then smiled. Yes. There was the slightest, gentlest roundness below her navel that hadn’t been there before.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“I think so,” she said cautiously.

Adrastos gave a delighted chirp and flew to her shoulder. “Is it today, then?”

“You don’t think it’s too soon to tell?”

“He’ll see it soon enough.”

“Still.”

“The doctor said it should be fine by now.”

Natasha sighed. “I’m still frightened,” she whispered.

“Tasha—”

“You know how he worries. We never planned for this. What if he doesn’t want it? What if we’ve gone and made a horrible mistake?”

“Well, it’s one we’ve already made,” he said. “But I know you don’t really think it’s a mistake. Don’t you? I feel happy, so I know you must too.”

“I am happy,” she said quietly. “I love it already, Drostya. I love it more than I’ve ever loved anything else.”

“And Pierre will feel the same way. You know that, deep down.”

Natasha bit her lip. Her reflection frowned back at her. She felt nerves bubbling in her stomach, rising in her chest, as if she had had a little too much champagne to drink. The burn of uncertainty. It was thrilling, in a way, and terrifying, and strange and sweet all at once, but she still had yet to decide whether or not her fear eclipsed her joy.

Sonya was the first one she told.

“I knew it!” she had cried, throwing her arms around Natasha. “Oh, Tasha, I saw how happy you’ve been and I just _knew_!”

Natasha had sworn her to secrecy, to which Sonya had happily obliged, and it had been their little secret, the two of them, until a week later, when the urge to share had grown too pressing to tamp down, and Natasha had gone in haste to her godmother to confess. Marya had lasted a grand total of five seconds before bursting into tears and smothering her with blankets and tea and biscuits. Now, every Sunday when they went to church, Marya lit an extra candle without comment and a sly smile. Natasha herself had taken to saying a quiet prayer every night before she went to bed. Then there had come the visits to Dr. Pasternak, a kindly older physician Marya had personally recommended, and that made three.

And then, as a courtesy, Natasha had written Princess Mary, half in apology and half in bashful request.

She hadn’t expected the response to arrive so quickly.

 _Dearest Natasha_ , Mary had written, _ever since leaving Moscow, I’ve been in such deep despair of the misunderstanding between us, and I beg you to believe that I cannot help loving you. You must forgive me for my ill temper and rudeness. I hope that you and Pierre will come visit once I get the house in order. My home will always have its doors open to you. The Bald Hills will be so much warmer for your presence._

_I miss Andrei dearly, Natasha. And I know you must still be grieving too. But I can’t help but feel a little closer to him whenever I think of you. He loved you, I know it in my heart. If it’s not too much for me to presume, I’d quite like the idea of our being friends._

In smaller cursive:

_As for your question, it would be a sincere honor._

Mary had signed it, _All my love, Masha_ , and that alone had nearly reduced Natasha to tears of joy. She had read the letter over and over until she knew each and every word by heart, then hidden it away in a little lockbox at her desk.

It was thinking of that letter, more than anything, that pushed her to overflowing giddiness. If this was how Mary responded—Mary, who hadn’t even _liked_ her until now—then what was there to worry about?

Rallying herself, Natasha looked down at her stomach, or what little she could see of it, and whispered, “Alright.”

Adrastos gave a small surprised chirp and pulled at her hair.

She put on a pair of slippers and set off downstairs. He fluttered after her, a gleam of white in the gloom of the stairwell. Pierre’s house— _her_ house now, she reminded herself—was always chilly at this hour. With the gas-lamps unlit, it was dark, but the Sun shone timidly through the transom window, and further down the hall, she saw a slant of gold, the light of a thermolamp. She followed it to the study and stopped at the open door.

A swell of fear rose in her chest, intermixed with excitement.

Pierre was sitting at his desk, barefoot, wearing a silk dressing gown over his nightshirt and poring over a book. Atop his head sat the wool chullo. There was a cup of tea in his hand, which he had leveled halfway between the desk and his lips. His other hand held a pen, the end of which he was distractedly chewing on. Khione lay squashed under the desk at his feet, not quite having managed to fit herself all the way, and neither she nor Pierre seemed to have realized this.

A warm burst of affection thrilled through Natasha as she leaned against the doorframe to watch him read. Utterly oblivious. She could have fired a cannon down the hallway and he wouldn’t have so much as raised his head. Andrei had been this way once—focused and solemn, but there was a childish air of delight in everything Pierre did, one that she hadn’t noticed until recently. Or perhaps it simply hadn’t been there before.

She came up behind his chair and wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her chin on the top of his head. Pierre jumped in surprise but just as quickly relaxed against her.

“Good morning,” he murmured, his voice still a sleepy rumble, setting the teacup aside. “You’re up early.”

“The bed was cold when I woke up. I missed you.”

Pierre reached for one of her hands and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s perfectly fine,” she said, squeezing his fingers.

“I woke up early and couldn’t fall back to sleep.” He gestured haphazardly to his open book and the notes he had penned in the margins. “I got a little distracted. I thought—you always sleep in on Saturdays. I didn’t think you’d be awake at this hour.”

Natasha leaned over his shoulder, up on her tiptoes, to have a look. The wool of his hat tickled her nose. “Which one is this?”

“Grumman’s thesis to the Berlin Academy on the magnetic variation of poles.”

“I haven’t read that one yet.”

“It’s a bit dense, truth be told. I’m not all that sure I’m getting most of it.”

“You’ll tell me all about it later, won’t you? Once I’m fully awake. And then I’ll see if I can take a crack at it myself.”

Pierre chuckled. “Of course, my love.”

Natasha smiled and fiddled with one of the tassels on the chullo until she tugged it off-balance. Laughing, Pierre swatted her hand away, but Natasha reached back with a vengeance and pulled it down, over his eyes, and his spectacles slid down to the tip of his nose.

Beneath the desk, Khione gave an amused huff.

A year ago, Natasha had envisioned her married life to be filled with christenings and soirées and long walks in the park and pearl necklaces and Christmas dinner parties. But that wasn’t Pierre at all. Pierre was philosophy conversations at dinner and tea brought to her in bed and solid, comforting warmth pressed against her in the morning, and presently, a wrestling match over a tasseled wool hat. It wasn’t all perfect, because nothing ever was—Pierre was also insomnia and misplaced spectacles and shattered teacups and wrinkled clothes and a dæmon who shed over the carpets and accidentally broke furniture like it was going out of fashion. She loved him, and he drove her mad, but between it all there was contentment.

And now this.

Pierre finally pulled off the hat, which sent his curls sticking out every which way, and pushed his spectacles back into place. Natasha leaned her chin into the crook of his shoulder. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Much the same.”

A frown wrinkled his brow. “My poor darling. What did the doctor say?”

Natasha rubbed circles in the skin between his thumb and forefinger. His palm was almost as wide as her entire hand. She felt her pulse ticking a little faster. “It’s what I thought it was.”

“Would you like me to get you some tea, _zhizn moya_? To settle your stomach? I’ll have Dunia get the samovar ready and—”

“I’m pregnant, Pierre,” she said quietly.

Khione shot to her feet with a startled cry, upending the desk. Pierre’s hands went slack. When he turned around in his seat, his eyes were wide and disbelieving. “You…?”

Natasha nodded. Her heart thundered in her ears.

Suddenly Pierre’s face split into a wide grin. Natasha squealed as he seized her and crushed her against his chest, peppering her face with kisses, and spun them around the room in giddy, gleeful circles.

“Be careful, Petrushka!” she said.

“Oh, God.” Hastily, he set her down. “I’m so sorry, Tasha, I wasn’t thinking. Are you alright?”

Natasha laughed. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“How did you—? When did you—? Is this—?”

“It’s been so hard not telling you. I just didn’t know how to.”

“Tasha—”

“I couldn’t stop worrying!”

“Worrying, darling?”

“I didn’t know if it would be too soon, and I didn’t want to tempt fate, and the doctor told me it might be too soon to tell and—oh, Pierre, I couldn’t stop fretting about what you would think!”

Pierre’s hands fluttered nervously over her stomach. “Oh, Tasha. I can’t believe this. I’m—we’re going to be parents. My God. I’m going to be a papa. You’re going to be a mama. How mad is that?” He looked up at her. “Do you know how far along you are?”

“About three months.”

His eyes widened, owl-like. “We were only married a month ago.”

She smiled craftily. Excitement swelled in her chest. “That we were.”

He placed a hand on his forehead. The other, he wiped on the hem of his waistcoat. “Christ. Look what we’ve done. We’ve gone and—your godmother’s going to trepan me.”

Natasha tipped her head back and laughed. “It’ll have to stay our little secret, then.”

“If anyone finds out—”

“No one will. Dr. Pasternak has sworn to be discreet.”

“Three months,” Pierre murmured, as if mulling it over in his mouth. He knelt in front of her as she pulled her nightdress taut across her stomach. “You’re a third of the way there, my dear.”

“I don’t think there’s anything there yet,” she said.

Pierre splayed a hand over her belly. A look of wonder came over his face. “No. I think I feel something.”

“It won’t be kicking for a while.”

He shook his head. “Not a kick. A bump.”

Natasha leaned over and kissed his forehead, running her hands through his curls. “You, my love, are ridiculous.”

“Who else knows?”

“Sonya. Marya. Princess Mary. I wrote my parents, but I haven’t heard back from them yet. And now you.”

“Princess Mary?”

Natasha blushed. “I want to name the baby after Andrei. I wrote her to ask for her blessing. It felt like the right thing to do.”

“You’ve already picked out a name?”

“It’s a boy,” she said. “I know it is. I feel it in my bones. Andrei Petrovitch Bezukhov. Isn’t that perfect?”

Pierre closed his mouth. His eyes welled with tears. He ducked his head bashfully, the tips of his ears burning bright red. “Oh.”

Natasha frowned. Her heart, still beating heavily, sank to the pit of her stomach. “You don’t like it?”

“No,” he said quietly, facing the floor. “I like it. I like it very much.”

“If you’d prefer something else, it really isn’t—I want it to be something we both agree on.”

“It’s perfect. Little Andrei. Little Drushya.”

His voice cracked over _Andrei_. This was a mistake, Natasha thought. What had she been thinking, digging up the memory of a dead man, the closest friend Pierre had ever had?

“I miss him too,” she said quietly. She felt a lump rising in her throat, the sort that usually preceded crying. “I know how much you’re hurting, darling. You don’t have to be brave for me. I never meant to upset you. I only thought it would be something sweet, to honor his memory. But if you think it’s too soon—”

“No,” he said. “No, it’s not that.”

“What’s wrong, then?” she said. “Please, talk to me.”

It was a long while before Pierre could respond. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

Natasha’s stomach, already heavy with nerves and twisted with morning sickness, dropped to the floor. “Pierre?”

He swallowed and wiped at his brow. “If you want nothing to do with me after this, I’ll understand. But I won’t lie to you. And I won’t keep secrets from you anymore.”

Natasha stepped back. “Pierre, you’re frightening me.”

Pierre gave a shaky not-laugh. “I loved him, Natasha. I loved him as I love you now.”

Natasha frowned. “I’m sorry?”

Pierre’s face grew even redder as he wrung his hands together until the knuckles went white. He looked down at the floor, as if ashamed to even meet her gaze. “I was _in_ love with him. Still am. Always will be, I suppose. He never knew. I don’t think he did, at least.”

“You mean—?”

“It’s taken me so long to realize, and I was afraid, but I needed you to know. I couldn’t hide it anymore. I’m a pervert and a deviant, but I swear to God and all that’s holy I still love you.”

Pierre’s words were slow to sink in. Natasha stood, frozen and wordless, and Pierre refused to raise his head, and the silence that stretched between them threatened to crack under its own weight. She heard Pierre breathing heavily, in and out through his nose, saw the way Khione’s limbs had tensed in fright, felt the air of disbelief and dismay that had settled over the room.

Then Natasha stepped forwards and cupped his cheeks and tilted his head up. The silence broke. “Oh, Pierre, darling, hush now,” she said. “Don’t speak of yourself like that. There’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing at all. I…I’m happy we can share this.”

Pierre looked up at her, startled.

“We can both love him, the two of us,” she said, stroking her fingers through his hair. “I still do. And I know he must have loved you terribly as well. There’s nothing shameful in it. There’s nothing sinful about love.”

Pierre exhaled, something shuddery and relieved. He wiped his spectacles and then his eyes, wet with tears. “I’m so lucky to have you,” he whispered. “I love you so much.”

Natasha sank to her knees and kissed his cheeks. “I love you too, _zhizn moya_. Every single part of you.”

He blubbered nonsensically, clasping her hands to his lips, weeping gently. Natasha was overcome by a deep, stirring sense of profound love. Without thought, she reached out one hand and stroked it through the golden-brown fur on Khione’s head. A peculiar sensation rose in her chest, like the warm bubbling of champagne in a bottle, and Pierre gave a content sigh and held her even closer, and she heard his heart beating in perfect rhythm with hers. It felt as if she were holding his very soul in her hands. As if they were one person instead of two.

It took a moment for either of them to realize what had just happened.

Pierre stared down at her, vaguely baffled but unhurt. “Tasha?” he said.

Tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh,” she gasped, heart racing. “Oh, Pierre, can you feel that too?”

He nodded. His hands tightened around hers.

“This is how it’s meant to be, isn’t it?”

Pierre laughed, bright and ringing. “I never thought that it could feel like this.”

Like this. Pure ecstasy. Sunlight and fireworks trapped in a jar. How could anyone have imagined something like this?

Natasha realized, with a sudden starburst of clarity that struck her like lightning, that Anatole had been right about this, in his own odd way. She took Pierre’s face in her hands and kissed him fervently again as the sensation overtook her, and when she drew away, she was laughing and breathless and trembling.

“I want you to try,” she said suddenly. “See if it feels the same the other way.”

Pierre’s eyes darted to Adrastos. He tentatively cupped his hands to form a little perch and Adrastos flew to his palm, a flutter of white and cream, cooing contentedly. The beautiful sensation returned, just as achingly strange and sweet.

“Pierre,” she said in a rush, starting to her feet, “we have to write this down. We’ve discovered something important.”

Pierre frowned. “This—Tasha, this is heresy. This will discredit to the Magistrate, the Church—”

“And the Tsar himself. They were all wrong about the taboo. We have _evidence_. Don’t you want to explore what that means?” Her face split into a wide smile. “Pierre, we could follow off where Rusakov left off. We could prove his theories right.”

“If we’re found out—”

“We won’t be. It’ll stay our little secret. For Drushya.”

Pierre bit his lip and squeezed her hand, still holding Adrastos in his other palm. “We’ll write it down, then. Until we can publish it. Whenever that is. For our Drushya. The both of them.”


	29. The Aerial Toll-House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anatole and Hélène are both alone in very different ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one got a little...dark. There are some mentions of death and some upsetting wartime content. We love you all a lot, and your support means the world to us.

Hélène had married Pierre not even a week after Anatole had been deployed for the first time. That night, after Pierre had drunkenly fallen asleep on the downstairs sofa, she had locked herself in the guest bedroom and cried herself to sleep, holding Dahanian to her chest, wanting her brother, wishing she were a child again, wondering how their lives had unraveled this way.

And now he was gone again, and so was Fedya, and Hélène felt as though she were missing one of her limbs.

A few days later, a letter arrived from Paris from Ippolit, addressed to her. It was awkward, and formal to the point of discomfort, as Ippolit always had been, but there was still genuine concern that bled through his words.

His Russian had suffered for his time abroad. Halfway through, he had given up altogether and switched to French. Hélène’s response was no doubt riddled with grammatical errors that she knew he would be too polite to point out. It saddened her that he had already begun to lose the language of their childhood. Another barrier between them, another inch of common ground that had slipped away.

Worry gnawed at her thoughts incessantly. She took to attending Church on Sundays with Aline and going for long walks in the garden. Some nights, when sleep evaded her, she slipped out in secret to aimlessly wander the streets, a habit of hers that she hadn’t left behind in Moscow. If it was meant in escape of something, she didn’t know what, but solitude was made easier by the illusion of choice. When she returned to her room, Dahanian would crawl into bed with her, and the two of them would hold each other till morning, praying for sleep, if it came at all.

A month passed. June slipped into July, August quickly nearing. And still, not a word from Anatole.

Today there was a light drizzle that had painted the sky grey. Vasily had left the house to do God-only-knew-what, leaving her and Aline to their own devices.

And Anna Pavlovna, of all the people in the world, saw fit to invite herself over for tea.

“I hear Count Bezukhov has already found a new wife,” she announced over the tray of lemon biscuits perched in her hands. “The little Rostova girl. The one who was engaged to Bolkonsky.”

Hélène’s head shot up, and she reached for Dahanian, who had curled himself beneath her chair.

Across the table, Aline, who had been preoccupied fiddling with her cross while her tea went cold, clucked in disapproval. Galian’s nose twitched almost-imperceptibly as he fixed his beady little eyes on Hélène.

“Is that allowed?” Aline said, furrowing her brow.

“Well, they went through with it, either way. The Count was properly divorced, after all.”

“I never thought the Magistrate would allow him to marry again. Not after—”

“You really shouldn’t frown so much, darling,” Anna said lightly. “You’ll give yourself wrinkles.”

“Heaven forbid,” said Aline.

Hélène almost winced at the ragged coldness of her voice. Aline, much like Anatole, had always been predisposed to anxiety, but never anything as severe as this. There were dark rings under her eyes, and Galian’s lovely white coat had gone thin all over, patchy in some places, as if he had taken to pulling at his fur. Aline stroked his head absentmindedly with nail-bitten fingers.

“And what of dear Anatole?” asked Anna. “How is he doing these days?”

Of course, Hélène thought to herself. Of course it would come back to that. Anna Pavlovna thought of war as nothing more than an exciting dalliance to titter over at her Sunday salons. Anatole could have dropped dead in a trench in mid-battle or on the train ride there and it wouldn’t have mattered any less to her, not unless she was able to dig some gossip out of it.

“We haven’t heard anything,” said Aline.

“That figures,” said Anna sagely. “They say the French are starting to intercept the Russian mail lines, you know. I heard it from Olga Ivanova.”

“Oh,” Aline said, with an air of dejection.

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” Anna continued. “I’m sure he wouldn’t want to know how worried you are. It’s so terribly noble, what our boys are out there doing. You must be very proud of him.”

Aline sniffed. Galian let out a concerned chitter and cuddled up against her chest, resting his front paws on her shoulder. “Yes. Very proud.”

Anna smiled over the rim of her teacup. “I’m sure you’ll be even prouder once he returns home. I don’t imagine the Petersburg ladies will be able to keep their hands off him. And there’ll be so many rich young widows for him to choose from. We’ll be able to put the entire debacle with Princess Bolkonskaya behind us.”

By now, Aline’s knuckles had gone as white as Galian’s fur. “We’re all praying for his safe return,” she said, in a voice that was strangely choked-off. “That’s all we can pray for.”

“What do you say he ends up with a nice rugged scar? I think it’d suit him wonderfully. That’s the sort of thing that adds character.”

Aline let out a tiny whimper and squeezed Galian to her chest, so tightly that he gave a small squeak in protest.

Hélène was strongly tempted, for more than a moment, to take her teacup and hurl it at Anna’s head. It would have been so satisfying. Easy too. But it wouldn’t have done her any real good, so instead she reached into her pocket and felt for the Danali figurine. Dahanian, no doubt fully aware of what she was doing, purred and nudged at her hand.

It didn’t help. It never would. Sterling silver and sculpted limbs would never be Danali, would never bring Anatole back to her, would never set things right or heal the deep, painful ache of loneliness in the pit of her chest.

“You’ve barely touched your tea, Elena, dear,” came the distant sound of Anna Pavlovna’s voice.

Hélène snapped back to reality, embarrassed to realize that the conversation had continued—or at least Anna had kept prattling on—and she hadn’t noticed. “My stomach is still feeling poorly,” she said. As far as excuses went, it was petty and childish, but then again, so was Anna, and in Hélène’s take on it, these things tended to cancel out.

Anna tutted and spooned another lump of sugar into her cup. “My goodness, you’re all so gloomy!”

Neither Hélène nor Aline had anything to say in response.

“Madame Malvintseva is giving a soirée next week,” Anna continued. “I’m sure you’ll be recovered by then.”

“I won’t, in all likelihood,” Hélène said curtly.

“Oh, come now, my dear, don’t be so pessimistic. It really doesn’t do to cloister yourself away like this. There may be a war going on, but our lives must continue as well.”

Hélène took another sip of her tea and refused to dignify that with an answer. Anna had just opened her mouth to speak again when Vasily appeared in the doorway of the parlor, dressed in a well-tailored coat edged with mink and a green silk cravat. Asteria’s fur was rain-damp, though there was an umbrella tucked into the crook of Vasily’s arm.

“Ah, Annette,” he said, striding across the room. He bent down to kiss Anna Pavlovna’s cheek. “How kind of you to grace us with your company.”

“Of course,” Anna said, returning the gesture. “I wanted to congratulate you on your son’s enlistment. You must be so very proud.”

“You’re late,” Aline broke in.

“My apologies,” Vasily said, as he delicately took a seat on the settee next to her and draped his coat over the arm. He kissed her hand, as if to placate her. Aline’s frown deepened a little further. “My watch was running slow.”

“Have there been any letters today?” she asked.

“Hm?”

“Any _letters_.”

Vasily’s face tightened. “Aline, dear, really, now isn’t the time.”

“You said that you would check.”

“And I did, and there weren’t any.”

Aline’s eyes grew wet, and she sniffed, reaching for her handkerchief.

Vasily sighed. “We’ve talked about these little displays of yours, darling.”

Aline shrank back into her seat, crying silently, and stroked Galian’s fur as she wiped at her eyes. Hélène was surprised at the pang of pity that flooded through her, foreign and pervasive. For a moment, she was almost tempted to reach across the table and take her mother’s hand.

“Elena, _ma fille_ ,” Vasily said, turning to her, “you’re looking a little peaky. I think you ought to go lie down.”

It was the appropriate sort of greeting, she thought, to expect from him. And the message underlying his words was far from subtle.

“I think you’re right,” she said stiffly. Vasily shepherded her out into the corridor, then made a point of closing the door behind her, as if to punctuate his order.

Dahanian started off down the hall. Hélène stayed put until there came a gentle tug of separation, and he came trotting back towards her with a confused huff.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

“What do you suppose they’re talking about?”

“Does it matter?”

It did, Hélène decided. You didn’t kick a person out of a conversation unless you had reason to continue it in private. And one could never be certain, with Vasily Kuragin, what that reason would entail. She turned around and pressed her ear flat to the door, listening, waiting.

“Lena,” Dahanian hissed.

“Hush.”

There wasn’t a great deal she could hear. The clinking of china, gentle footfalls, the murmur of hushed voices. Hélène’s skin prickled uneasily. Then followed the women’s voices, Anna’s indulgent and vaguely amused, Aline’s indignant.

Dahanian paced up and down the length of the foyer, holding the tufted end of his tail in his mouth. “I don’t like this. I really don’t like this.”

Hélène bit her lip and said nothing. Behind the door, she heard Vasily raise his voice, though his words were muffled and indistinct.

“You’ll be in trouble if they catch you,” said Dahanian.

“Quiet, Danochka.”

The groan of a chair being pushed in. Footsteps. Hélène pressed even closer, straining her ears.

Suddenly the door burst open. She leapt backwards, startled.

Aline fixed Hélène with a cold, curious look. Her eyes were red-rimmed and watery, and her nose and cheeks were flushed scarlet, tears still running down her cheeks.

“Shouldn’t you know better than to eavesdrop?” she snapped. “One would think you were raised in a barn.”

Hélène swallowed and said nothing. Dahanian shrank back behind her legs. Aline brushed past her, sniffling, her breath hitching with small pained sounds, and held Galian tightly, pressing her face into his fur. Behind the door, Vasily’s and Anna’s voices grew louder and more at ease.

Without another word, Hélène hurried off down the corridor in the opposite direction, burning with shame and pity she didn’t want to feel.

* * *

 

Komarovsky, dead. Volkov, dead. Boyko, dead. And God only knew how many others.

A run-in with the French that morning at Vitebsk had cleared scores of men from the ranks, all but halving Anatole’s regiment. The colonel and the private had been counted among the deceased. He might have been relieved, vindicated even, if only he hadn’t felt so numb and terrified instead.

A bullet—French, Russian, it didn’t matter—had veered wide. But it had almost caught him. Death didn’t lose its sting, he realized, when you saw it face-to-face.

General Kutuzov had led them in frantic retreat to a clearing some miles from the borderline. If the French had given chase, they were making slow work of it, and Anatole hardly had the energy to spare it any more than a passing thought. Forest surrounded them on all sides, a dense thicket, dark as pitch now that the Sun had set, as if the night itself were drawing in on them.

Someone had lit a small fire in the center of the campsite while the tents were erected. Anatole sat on the ground, staring into its feeble glow, shrinking into the jacket that had grown too large for his thinning shoulders. There was a cup of coffee in his hands. He held close to him, thankful for its weak spark of warmth.

Danali sat in his pocket with her head pressed to his chest, breathing in time with his heartbeat, the warmest spot in all the world.

Hours earlier, he had seen a young Russian soldier bayoneted through the ribs by a Frenchman. The boy’s dæmon—an otter, or a marten, or something of that kind—had exploded with a screeching starburst of light and dust, and then nothing. The two of them, gone together in an instant. Watching the fire now, rattled and cold and still shaking with fear, Anatole saw it playing out over and over in his mind’s eye.

Danali, sensing his fear, burrowed in closer. “We’ll never be apart, Tolya,” she said quietly. “Not ever.”

Anatole laid a hand on her tiny body. Her heart thrummed beneath his palm, something delicate and flickering. His other hand reached into his breast pocket, where he had hidden the Dahanian figurine. He turned it over in his fingers. Firelight caught on silver, and for a moment, the snow leopard gleamed gold.

Across the clearing, he caught Fedya’s gaze. Standing with a group of higher-ranking officers, his uniform was filthy with dirt and gunpowder. Above his left eyebrow was a strip of bloodied bandages, as if someone had taken to his forehead with a knife. In the dim firelight, his face was hollow and haunted, his eyes dark as a ghost’s. Anatole wondered how he himself must have looked—dirty, exhausted, terrified, pathetic.

Fedya turned his head away. Anatole shivered and looked down at his feet.

Hours later, the fire burnt down to cinders and soot and dying embers and night set in cold as death. Anatole trudged off to the tents and curled over on himself and slipped into a dreamless sleep.

Exhaustion had rattled time loose. There were no hours or days or weeks anymore, only dirt and aching feet and the shadow of death looming over his shoulder like a spectre. Faces came and went, ghosts passing in mirrors. He wrote letters to Hélène and Ippolit that were never sent. Every day felt like a bizarre, meaningless dream, moving without purpose, without feeling.

There was war, and there was hell, and Anatole was no longer certain which of the two he was caught in.

One grey evening when the sun was sinking below the horizon and a sea of fog rolled over the steppes thick as gunsmoke, they came upon a village at the embankment of a river a few miles from a place called Borodino, where, in the morning, they were set to meet the French again.

The villagers greeted them tired and sullen. Three days ago, he heard them say, a regiment of French officers had passed through town while the _Grande Armée_ had set up camp in a nearby clearing.

In the center of the green, still smoking, was a circle of scorched earth ringed by crumbling ring of wood, as if a building had been set alight and torched to the ground. Senseless, Anatole thought. There was no sense in anything here. No sense in war, no sense in fighting for a country he felt no loyalty to, no sense in setting a fire just to watch it burn.

Danali chittered anxiously and ducked down into his pocket. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Fedya and skirted off in the opposite direction before he could be seen.

This quarter of town was desolate, save for a lonely cottage and a small flock of sparrows picking at the ground. At the edge of the path there was a small greystone chapel with a wooden onion-dome roof and darkened windows. A quiet, empty little place, he thought. Maybe even a hiding spot. He trudged towards it and shouldered the door open.

From the inside it was a homely building, small enough that it could have fit have three, four, five times over into Saint Basil’s Cathedral. Not a single candle had been left lit. Above the altar hung a painted icon of Christ, though in the darkness his face was too dim to see.

“Look at us, Linoshka,” he said, with a smile at the corner of his mouth. “I never did think I’d set foot in a church willingly. War really does change you.”

Danali did not seem amused with this in the slightest. Anatole felt an undercurrent of worry stirring between them.

“Isn’t this nice?” he continued. “I don’t imagine anyone will pester us in here.”

“Something feels odd about this place,” she said.

“I’ll say a prayer if it makes you feel any better.”

She scoffed. “You, praying? Don’t be stupid.”

Anatole turned his head to the side and gently touched her nose. As he did, something flashed in the corner of his eye. A thin slant of light, struggling in through the doorway he hadn’t seen before. Intrigued, he followed it ahead, up a steep spiral staircase, where, at the landing, there was another door.

It creaked open at the slightest touch.

A dark, dusty room that may have once been a library or a seminary chamber, with a desk in one corner and bookshelves lining the walls and a table surrounded by overturned chairs. There was no illumination, save for the faintest catch of sunlight through the smashed-in window. The air tasted metallic. Anatole thought of the aerial toll houses his mother had told him about as a young boy, dark and still in-betweens, places of neither the living nor the dead. He had always been superstitious, but curiosity compelled him forwards like a man tugged along a string.

“I really don’t like this,” Danali whispered, whiskers twitching.

Anatole pressed onwards. Underfoot, the floor groaned softly, like a human voice. Had they been younger, venturing into this very room as children, she might have become a moth or a bat, something dark and inconspicuous to better hide.

“Anatole, something’s wrong.”

“Hush, Linoshka,” he said.

On the table, as he neared it, he saw a cigar tray and a flintlock pistol. He turned the pistol over in his hands, rolling the barrel along his palm. The feel of it was different to anything he had fired before. This was a handsome weapon, expensive-looking too. But too decorative for battle.

Danali crawled into his pocket as he thumbed the lockplate. He felt her heart thrumming through the fabric of his shirt.

“Tolya, please—” she said.

“Look at this,” he said, holding it so that she could see properly. “What do you suppose this is? French? German?”

“You should put it down.”

“I’m not going to fire it.”

“This is silly. If Fedya finds out—”

“Captain Dolokhov doesn’t need to know.”

Danali grew quiet. Anatole turned on his heel, faux-aimed at the wall opposite, and stopped dead at what he saw through the sights of the pistol.

Sat slumped in the chair, looking across at him over the table was a middle-aged man dressed in the imperial green of a Russian military uniform. His eyes were wide open, but pained and unseeing. At his sides, his bone-white hands were clenched into fists. The pistol went clattering to the floor.

“Christ,” said Anatole, gasping to catch his breath.

“He’s dead,” whispered Danali.

Morbid fascination and disgust churned in his stomach. He leaned forwards, over the table, and glanced over the dead officer. Not a single scratch on him. No bullet wounds, no bloodstains, nothing. Perhaps he had died of fright, sitting here in the chair with a tray of cigars and a pistol, and his dæmon had disintegrated to dust as if she had never been there at all.

Danali whimpered. “Something terrible happened here.”

“We’re fighting a war, Linoshka,” Anatole sighed. “Terrible things are happening everywhere.”

“No, this isn’t—”

“You’re being silly,” he repeated, bending down after the pistol. “And we should look for the others. Maybe there’s a survivor.”

Danali leapt from his pocket and scurried to the door, a flash of white. Anatole held himself still and let her run until the pang of separation snapped her back towards him like a dog on a leash. Pain flashed through him, sharp and cold. Tears sprang to his eyes.

“What—stop that!”

Danali snarled and strained against the pull. Anatole felt the invisible strings between them pulling, fraying, as if skirting along the edge of a blade, threatening to splinter and unravel, and he knew it must have felt the same for her too, but she only pushed harder and harder, more stubbornly, until he cried out, “You’re hurting me!”

“I won’t stay here,” said Danali.

He couldn’t bear it a second longer. Anatole rushed towards her and gathered her in his arms. “Don’t,” he said. “Please, don’t leave me.”

Her lithe little body was trembling. Anatole felt her fear bleeding into his own confusion, intertwined and inseparable, and he held her to his chest and kissed the top of her head.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I was only curious. I only wanted to see. We’ll leave. Alright?”

“Please,” she said, curling into his torso.

Still holding her, Anatole started to his feet and set off towards the door. He wouldn’t think of it anymore. There was the door, and there was the hallway, and he would be gone, away from here and the dead officer, out of this awful place, back into the sunlight and the open air.

He had just taken one step out into the corridor when something caught around his ankle. Danali gave a horrible terrified screech and dug her claws into his shoulder till they tore through his shirt. The air crackled in his ears, loud as thunder.

When Anatole turned his head down, he was looking into the living eyes of Andrei Bolkonsky.


	30. Severed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fedya and Anatole run into a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um...this one turned out very dark, folks. Please check the warnings on the fic and read with caution!

Laying eyes on the village of Avdotyino was like stepping into the past.

Fedya’s mind had drifted out of his body, carried by the wind, twenty years ago and a thousand miles away to the foothills of the Urals. He had never left it, really. Or perhaps it simply hadn’t left him. Here, a cottage that could just as easily have been the one he had grown up in; there, a barn like his mother’s landlord’s. Foothills and fields surrounding the valley, the warm air of summer, grass yellowed by the Sun.

The resemblance wasn’t all that perfect. At the edge of town just beyond a short row of fence were the smoking corpses of campfires, holes gouged into the earth where tent pegs must have once been dug, visible even from here. The remnants of invasion. Or perhaps the forewarnings of it.

They couldn’t stay for long. A few hours, at most, to rest and gather some supplies. General Kutuzov had already given the order to march for Borodino, the last stand before the French reached Moscow. And God only knew what awaited them there.

He wouldn’t think of it, he decided. Every ounce of fear he held in him was a liability. He was Dolokhov the assassin, who feared nothing, who felt nothing, who cared for nothing. When he held a pistol in his hands, it was as if he had no soul.

At his side, he felt Samira’s coarse fur bristling, as if in trepidation.

“Knock it off,” he snapped. “No one’s here, there’s no need to be frightened.”

Her lip curled into an ugly snarl, something feral and vicious, more wild animal than dæmon. He felt anger pulsing between them, and the fear—what little of it had been there at all—was gone in an instant.

Denisov, who had returned minutes earlier from speaking with the village elders, pushed his hands into his trouser pockets and whistled as he took in the wreckage that had been left behind. Madge clung to his shin with a nervous chitter.

“The frogs’ve made a real mess of this place, haven’t they?” he said.

Fedya shrugged, squinting into the distance. Smoke, rising into the sky. Torches, perhaps. Burned fields, ruined crops. Families that would go hungry in the winter. “Dunno. Could’ve been our men.”

It very well could have. There was little he would have put past the Imperial Army. Defeat after defeat, loss after loss, the endless onslaught of tomorrows with no promise of victory. Cruelty was second nature to men in times like this. He knew that all too well.

But Denisov gave a strange look, as if he couldn’t decide whether that was a more pessimistic or hopeful spin on things, then nodded across the green. “They told us that the commanding officers stationed themselves in that chapel. The villagers say there’s a ghost or an ovinnik or something haunting it now. It wails horribly all night.”

Fedya gritted his teeth. There was enough misery in this world without people inventing more of it in their heads. In Kushva, the wind howling through the walls was a drekavac and creaking floorboards were a kikimora. There was always an explanation, he remembered now, for the deep ache of hunger, or the threat of a fireplace gone dead and cold, or the creeping fingers of illness and famine. But that wasn’t how the world worked, only the way people wanted to think it did.

“I’m only telling you what I’ve been told,” added Denisov, as if having caught Fedya’s line of thought. “They’re superstitious in this part of the country.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said stiffly.

“Right,” Denisov said drily. “Moscow boy, through and through, aren’t you?”

From the other side of the clearing there came a sharp scream, loud and sudden as a hail of gunfire. The hairs on the back of Fedya’s neck stood on end. Dread shot through his heart. As close to fear as he would allow.

Denisov turned his head to the chapel with a frown. “Christ,” he said. “You don’t think that’s—?”

It wasn’t an ovinnik. Fedya would have recognized that voice anywhere.

Samira had already bolted by the time his mind had scraped together the wherewithal to follow. They shot past the road, through the side door of the chapel, up a narrow flight of stairs, to the narrow doorway of a long, dark room. Inside, Anatole lay back, breathing hard and fast, propped onto his elbows, his spine pressed to the wall as far as it would go, looking for all the world as if he had just seen a ghost. On the floor several feet away from his hand was a French pistol. In one corner of the room closer to the window there was a tall round table, around which stood several chairs. A soldier sat in the one furthest from the corridor, silent, unmoving, dead.

Fedya drew his own pistol as he stepped through the doorway. “Anatole?” he said.

“His dæmon,” Anatole gasped, trembling violently. “Fedya, it’s—he has no dæmon.”

Anatole was not looking at the dead man. Fedya turned his head, following Anatole’s eyes, one finger tensed on the trigger-guard, and stepped fully into the room. When he saw who it was lying behind the door, his knees almost gave out beneath him.

Andrei Nikolayevich Bolkonsky looked like the living dead. There was no color left at all in his face, save for the dark circles under his eyes and the shadows that had once been his cheeks. His hair was matted with sweat. The last time Fedya had seen him, at one of the Hélène’s balls or soirées, he had been in a neatly-pressed uniform, boots gleaming, hair brushed back, infuriatingly handsome, and cold and condescending and closed-off. And at his shoulder had sat a lovely snowy owl with keen yellow eyes.

But the owl was not there now.

Fedya stared, disgusted and unable to look away, though every inch of him screamed to. A human with no dæmon was like a person without a face. Something unnatural and grotesque and vile, something that belonged to the world of night-ghasts.

“Have you seen my Eulalia?” Andrei asked, in a voice thin as smoke.

“‘Eulalia’?” said Fedya.

“I don’t know where she is,” said Andrei. “I want her.”

“Your dæmon?”

“She flew away,” Andrei whispered. His eyes, clouded over as they were, began to well with tears as they darted around the room, searching. “Out the window. I couldn’t—I can’t f-find her.”

On the other side of the room, Anatole doubled over on himself and retched.

Fedya swallowed down his disgust and dread as he holstered his pistol and knelt beside Andrei. The prince’s eyes widened, perhaps in recognition, and his hand fumbled to Fedya’s wrist. His skin was cold to the touch, unnaturally so. As if he had been frozen to the core. As if ice ran through his veins. Fedya forced himself not to recoil.

“What’s happened to you?” he asked.

“They took her away from me,” said Andrei. His voice hitched. “They wanted—I didn’t want to talk, and they took her from me, and she’s gone.”

“Who?” said Fedya. “Who took her?”

“Bad men,” said Andrei. “Bad, bad men.”

Fedya’s pulse leapt with not-fear. Severance. Intercision. Precise in its cruelty. A man and his dæmon, pulled apart. Vile, unspeakable, unthinkable. The urge to flee was matched only by the need to know.

“How many more did they separate?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Was it only you?”

Andrei’s eyes wandered. “No,” he whispered. “I was—I was the last.”

Fedya jerked his head towards the dead soldier. “Him?”

Andrei nodded with a shudder. “My superior,” he choked out.

“Were they interrogating you?” Fedya pressed. “How much did you tell them? Where are the survivors? Do you know what they’re planning? Where are they striking next?”

“Borodino,” he said, as if the word had been shaken out of him.

“They’re at Borodino?”

Andrei shook his head, dazed, terrified, like a cornered animal. “It hurts,” he said. “I want my Eulalia. I—I shouldn’t be here. I want to go home. I need my Eulalia—”

“He’s gone mad,” whispered Anatole.

“What’s happening at Borodino?” Fedya asked.

“I was s-supposed to come back,” said Andrei. “The wedding—I promised—”

“Don’t worry about that now,” Fedya said. “How long ago did the French abandon this camp?”

“Natalka,” Andrei moaned, tipping his head back against the bookcase.

“Stay with me, Bolkonsky. Tell me what happened.”

Now Andrei’s tone bordered on hysteria. “She wanted to marry in the summer. Papa—Papa told me to wait. I had to leave her.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Fedya saw a flash of white. Danali. Next to her crouched Anatole. In the half-light of the room, his face was all angles, like the shattered panes of a mirror. Where there had once been horror there was now a strange sort of determination, a pressing urgency.

“Natasha Rostova?” said Anatole.

Fedya stood back as Anatole slowly inched towards Andrei.

“My Natalka,” Andrei said softly.

“She’s perfectly safe,” said Anatole. “She’s still waiting for you.”

Andrei’s eyes shot wide. His hands stiffened and then clenched down spasmodically, like those of an old man. “You’ve seen her?”

“I saw her in Moscow.”

“No,” said Andrei, terror seizing his limbs. “Not Moscow. They’re in danger. Masha and Natalka—”

“Your sister’s safe,” Anatole said. “Safe in Petersburg. Not Moscow. They’re both perfectly safe.”

“I promised her I’d come back,” said Andrei. “Told her I’d be s-safe. I can’t—can’t break a promise.”

“You won’t,” Anatole said firmly.

With shaking hands, Andrei drew something from the collar of his shirt and pressed it into Anatole’s hands. A thin metal chain with a worn pendant. A flash of gold in the darkness.

“Masha gave this to me,” he said. “I said I’d bring it b-back to her. After the war was done. You need to make sure she gets it back. Promise me, Kuragin.”

Something like guilt tightened Anatole’s lips. “I will,” he said, so low Fedya almost couldn’t hear it.

Andrei seemed to relax at that. A sleepy calm washed over his features, and the corner of his mouth curled up in a tired smile. But there was no light at all left in his eyes.

“I’m so cold,” he said. “So cold.”

Anatole took Andrei’s hands and massaged them between his own, as if trying to coax warmth back into his skin. “We’ll get you out of here. You’ll be alright, I swear it.”

“Your hands,” murmured Andrei. “They’re so warm.”

That was all he managed to say before his head slumped to the side. Not unconscious, but not fully awake either, somewhere in-between and dead to the world all the same.

Anatole held his thumb to the pulse-point at Andrei’s inner wrist. His other hand cradled the back of Andrei’s neck. “He needs a doctor,” he said. “Feel how cold he is, Fedya. If we don’t get him someplace warm—”

“Report to base camp,” Fedya said.

Brutal, the sound of his own voice. Cruel and far too recognizable.

Anatole turned his head slowly, frowning. “Fedya?”

“I said report to base camp.”

Anatole’s eyes followed Fedya’s hand as it drifted to his belt, then lower still to the pistol in its holster. His face grew pale.

“Fedya,” he breathed, eyes shining wetly. “No, Fedya, you can’t—”

“That was an order from your commanding officer, Corporal Kuragin.”

Anatole leaned Andrei back against the bookcase and sat up on his knees, between Fedya and Andrei, still holding Andrei’s hand. Danali coiled herself around his neck. Pleading. Maybe for the first time in his life. “He’s a living man. We can save him. We don’t have to—”

Fedya made his voice low and warning, into something not-fearful, something that wasn’t him, not really. “You would do well to remember that insubordination is a punishable offense.”

Silence stretched for a long moment. Five beats of the heart, five breaths in and out. Anatole rose to his feet, eyes burning cold, hands trembling at his sides. Then he turned on his heel and fled the room like a wounded animal. The door closed behind him with a loud bang.

Fedya turned back to Andrei, his own heart beating heavily, too heavily. The not-man’s face was twisted with pain, trapped in a sleep-like limbo. This wasn’t living, Fedya thought. Nothing left there. He eyed the window briefly, its panes shattered as if broken by the wings of a bird, as if a man’s soul had flown out.

Fedya crossed himself, his fingers moving faster than his mind. Breathe in, breathe out.

“Fedya,” said Samira.

Fedya did not listen to her.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He drew his pistol on the exhale. The hammer gave a quiet click. Easy as counting to three. Easy as closing your eyes and going to sleep. His aim had never failed him. Not yet.

It wouldn’t now.

Breathe in, breathe—


	31. Treason of the Highest Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spare moment of peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting! Holidays/ family/ personal stuff happened, and we didn't churn this one out as quickly as we would've liked to! Hope you enjoy!

There was a certain methodical rituality to cleaning a gun. In his life, Fedya had field-stripped, polished, and reassembled his pistol probably a thousand times over. He could have done it in the dark, feeling his way by the muscle memory alone, with all the ease of doing up the laces on his boots. The process was simple enough. Barrels and locks and hammers, each with their own place and purpose.

If only his hands would stop shaking long enough to do it properly.

It was dark in the tent, save for the naphtha lamp he had lit some hours earlier to stave off the night. Most days the regiment went dead after sundown, worn thin with exhaustion and fear. But tonight, the men were drinking to the end of the world, and outside, the field burned bright with the glow of campfires and the swell of laughter and clinking bottles.

Samira, shivering now from the cold, her tail threatening to upend the lamp with its every move, gave a soft whine and shifted closer to him. “Fedya,” she began.

“I don’t want to talk,” he snapped.

Samira drew back in on herself. Fedya felt terror roiling between them, like the distant rumbling of cannonfire, and gritted his teeth. Bolkonsky’s fault, for putting that fear in her. He blinked, then roughly rubbed at his eye with the heel of his hand, as if trying to blot it out. There was no need for it. Shouldn’t have been. He had killed before, God knew how many times, and there was no shame in that. If he had killed Bolkonsky—whatever was left of him to kill—then it had been out of mercy. No shame in that either. And Anatole would never understand, because he was fearful and selfish and weak, and everything Fedya wasn’t, and nothing that he needed to be, and this was war and nothing was right, and the goddamn barrel still wouldn’t fit into the lock.

He shouldn’t have taken it apart in the first place. It didn’t matter if his pistol was clean or not, not really, not so long as it could still fire bullets. But pride would not let him set it aside. If his pistol was clean, then it meant some sort of control, and control mattered most in these quiet moments, before the shots were fired and the world erupted into unpredictable chaos.

From Avdotyino they had marched to Borodino, where there would be battle again in the morning. He felt it crackling in the air, sparking like the ignition light of a flintlock, heavy as the taste of sulphur, a familiar sensation by now. Another ritual in and of itself.

And the last thing standing between the French and Moscow.

He wouldn’t think about what might come after that. He wouldn’t allow himself to.

Fedya was drawn out of his thoughts by the sound of approaching footsteps. Without dropping the pistol, he looked up and turned his head to the flap of the tent.

Anatole looked an absolute wreck. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, and his hair stuck out at every odd angle, almost as if he’d been pulling at it, a nervous habit Fedya had seen on more than one occasion but never paid any mind. At his sides, his hands twitched, the nails bitten down to the quick.

“You’re a vile brute,” he said, in a voice ragged from shouting or drinking or smoking or quite possibly all three. “How could you _do_ that?”

Of course it would come back to that. Sentimental Anatole. Thoughtless, brainless, pathetic Anatole. Mourning a man he had hated. Or maybe he was only looking for an excuse to be angry.

“You’re not supposed to be here without permission,” Fedya said, eyeing the tent flap.

“He was an innocent man,” Anatole pressed on. “We could’ve helped him. He could’ve _lived_.”

“Corporal Kuragin, you will hold your—”

“He had a sister, you know. What would she think if she could see you? If she knew what you’ve done? You’re a murderer. You’re a killer. That’s all you are. That’s all you know how to do.”

Fedya stiffened with rage. This idiot prince, spoilt and arrogant, with his petulance and empty silver-haired head. This selfish stupid child who had never known discipline. Who did Anatole think he was, to address him this way? Who was Anatole to criticize him for this? Anatole, who had never given a damn about anyone other than himself. The nerve of it. Fedya could have backhanded him across the face and not so much as blinked.

“Get the hell out of my tent,” he snarled.

“What?”

“Go. Or I’ll throw you out myself.”

Anatole dropped to the ground with a defeated huff. He stared downwards, allowing his hair to fall over his forehead. Danali wound herself around his wrist. “Don’t try and act like you aren’t afraid as well.”

“We aren’t fighting until the morning. No point worrying about it now. Nothing we can do about it.”

“Nothing we can do about Bolkonsky anymore either.”

There was something furious and terrified and desperate in Anatole’s voice, something he couldn’t hide even with his face turned away. Childish. Pathetic.

“It was the merciful thing to do,” he said.

The sound that Anatole made was too bitter to be a laugh. “You’re such a liar.”

And then without further preamble he lunged forwards and fisted his hands in the front of Fedya’s shirt and kissed him, all clashing teeth and scrabbling hands and utterly no grace whatsoever. He tasted of vodka and campfire smoke. Fedya reciprocated on instinct. Anatole was warm and lithe and the tent was cold and the ache of war had left them both worn-down and weak. It was a thoughtless distraction. Easy, too.

And it had been so, so long.

Anatole hummed as Fedya’s hands wandered into his hair and pulled, nails scraping against his scalp. There was comfort in the familiarity of this. Almost a routine. The warmth and urgency that rose between them was maddening.

“Would you look at that,” Anatole sneered, almost laughing. “They didn’t neuter you after all.”

There was no thought anymore. Fedya threw Anatole down to the mat and tore at his clothes. In a moment his shirt was unbuttoned, and Fedya’s lips were against his neck hard enough to bruise, and their hips and chests were flush. Incensed, Fedya took Anatole’s wrists in one hand, gripping till his knuckles ached, and pinned them down, and Anatole threw his head back with a gasp as Fedya shoved his knee in between his legs.

“Jesus, God, yes, _Fyedka_ —!”

Fedya stilled at that name. The blood in his veins ran cold. When he opened his eyes, he saw what he hadn’t before.

Anatole had lost too much weight. His cheeks were gaunt, his blond hair matted and dull. His bones felt hollow, birdlike, infinitely delicate. So fragile. Such a breakable thing. His wrists were already bruising in Fedya’s grip.

Guilt sank its ugly claws into Fedya’s chest. He drew back, sitting upright on his knees, and released Anatole. His head whirred dizzily. Why had he wanted this? Why had he thought this would help?

Anatole looked up at him expectantly and placed Fedya’s hand on his inner thigh, his own hand working at the buttons of his trousers. “Don’t be such a tease, _mon canard_ ,” he breathed. “You’ve kept me waiting this long.”

Fedya pushed his hand away. Anatole frowned. He lay back, legs splayed, flushed and confused. “Is there something wrong?”

“I can’t,” Fedya said.

“What, why not? I can’t be all that hideous now, can I?”

“This isn’t right,” he said. “I shouldn’t—”

“Oh, Fyodor,” Anatole drawled. He climbed into Fedya’s lap and twined his arms around Fedya’s neck. Pressed against Fedya, his chest was warm and narrow. “One would think you’d want to enjoy yourself a little before the inevitable. Might not get another chance.”

“Now you’re talking nonsense.”

Anatole smiled, strange and edged with delirium. “Of course. It’s all nonsense, isn’t it? War. Battle. Death.”

“Anatole—”

“None of it matters,” he said, drawing Fedya in by the collar of his shirt. “But I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Fedya could have laughed at the absurdity of it. “You’re mad.”

“Please,” he said, weakly, pathetically. “I just need something. Anything.”

“You’re not getting it from me. Go find someone else. Lord knows you’d have it easy enough.”

“Please, Fedya, just don’t make me leave—”

“Get out.”

Anatole’s face grew blotchy and red. His eyes shone wetly. A moment later, he began to cry. Fedya sat back, blinking, surprised. Not by the crying, but the way Anatole clung to him, as if he was a lifeline.

“What’s wrong with you?” he snapped.

“I can’t do this,” said Anatole. “I can’t live like this. I feel like the sky’s going to come down on me. I feel—I feel like death’s following me. I can’t sleep or eat here. It’s eating me alive. My heart—feel it, Fedya. It’s beating like the devil.”

Anatole took Fedya’s hand and pressed it to his chest. His heart thundered beneath Fedya’s palm like the frantic wingbeats of a hummingbird. His hand, still holding onto Fedya’s wrist, trembled.

“Do you know how it feels to live like this?” he said, breathing hard. “Like every waking moment could be your last? I don’t care anymore. I just want it to stop.”

“You’re only upsetting yourself.”

“I can’t go into battle again. I’ll lose my damn mind. I can’t let them do to me what they did to Bolkonsky. You have to promise you won’t let that happen.”

“What?”

Anatole gripped his hands tightly. Danali wound herself around his neck, tight, every muscle in the both of them tensed like the spring of a lock, threatening to snap. “If it was the right thing. The merciful thing. You did it for Bolkonsky. I know you don’t love me and I know you never have—”

“Anatole—”

“—but you have to care that much. You can’t be completely heartless. Please, Fedya. I can’t do it myself. I don’t have the nerve. I’m not like you.”

Fedya tasted blood in the back of his throat.

“I can’t have that happen,” said Anatole. “I can’t lose her. They can’t take her away from me. I’d sooner die.”

The silence between them stretched, more agonizing with every second, till Anatole’s knuckles were white, till his hands shook too violently to hold, till he slumped back, defeated, lost-looking, and held Danali to his chest as if she were the only good thing left in the world.

Fedya stared and said nothing. The most peculiar sensation rose in his chest, heavy and cold. He recognized it, a moment later, as fear.

Then Samira stepped forwards and nosed her way under Anatole’s arm and pressed against his chest, the way she had done to Fedya countless times as a frightened child. Anatole tensed at the contact. Samira, undeterred, whimpered and licked his cheek.

Fedya felt as if his soul had been shaken loose. Anatole’s shoulders slumped with a shuddering exhale, and he threw his arms around Samira and buried his face in her neck. Fedya was overcome by a tidal wave of fierce protectiveness. It seemed to him that there was something invisible and inseparable between them, like strings drawing them even closer together under the dimming naphtha light. The feeling of _pack_ and _home_ and _mine_ was overwhelming, so beautifully intense that it almost hurt.

And then it hurt.

Underneath the warmth, the stirrings of fear. A heart beating too fast. The weight of the sky crushing his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He was alone, and so frightened and miserable, and the thought of morning made him want to scream, and he was unloved, and the only thing in the world he wanted was his sister.

No, Fedya realized. This wasn’t him. These feelings weren’t his own.

A minute passed, or five, or ten, and Fedya stared all the while as realization sank in and Anatole held onto Samira until his sobs had ebbed off into hiccups. Had it felt the same way for him? Bliss, then pain? Or only despair? Unloved, Fedya thought, as the sensation deepened and then abated. How long had he been that way? How could he have been so blind?

Finally, he mustered the courage to speak again.

“You really think that I don’t love you?” he said, and then winced at the crack in his own voice.

Anatole furrowed his brow.

Fedya tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. “Why would you think that?” he said. “Tolya, I—what did I ever do to make you feel that way?”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Anatole said quietly. His eyes darted down to Samira, her head tucked under his chin. When he turned back to Fedya, they were distrusting and hard. The irony of this was not lost on him. “It’s only ever been Lena with you.”

“No, that’s not true.”

“You’re the reason I’m here. You—you pushed me out from under the table. You let me take the blame. You _let_ him—”

“I know,” Fedya said softly. “I was wrong to do that to you.”

Anatole’s arms tightened around Samira. Fedya felt as though a pair of invisible arms had tightened around himself. “You were.”

“I’m sorry.”

Fedya took one of Anatole’s hands and ran his thumb along the lines of his palm. Anatole fell silent. His skin was cold, a little calloused now, but still soft. He didn’t have the hands of a soldier, Fedya thought. He never would.

Without thinking, Fedya brought Anatole’s hand to his lips and kissed his palm. “I do love you,” he murmured.

Anatole looked up at him, startled.

The words tumbled out of him before he could stop them. “I know you might not feel the same way, and that’s my fault. But you should know. I’ve loved you for years.”

Anatole sharply drew his hand back. The look in his eyes was unreadable. “Don’t you lie to me,” he said, his voice shaking.

“It’s not a lie.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Samira drew away from Anatole, and as she did, Fedya felt the air between them grow cold again. His heart sank slowly to the pit of his stomach. The bitterness of rejection stung harsh as a slap to the face. He realized, with no small sense of alarm, that he was close to tears. Furious at his own weakness, he forced it down, rough and raw and straining at the seams, fighting him all the way.

“I know you’re afraid, Tolya—” he began.

Anatole barked out a harsh-sounding laugh.

“—but I won’t let anything happen to you tomorrow.”

“I don’t believe that either.”

“You’ve lived through battle already. This is nothing different. You know how it goes.”

“I do. I’ve seen it before. People _die_ , Fedya. That’s what they do in war. They die, and they’re gone, and they never come home. I can’t do that to Lena. I can’t—she’d never forgive me.” He paused, his bloodshot eyes searching Fedya’s. For once, it felt as if Anatole were looking right through him. “I know you’re afraid too.”

“I am,” said Fedya. His throat threatened to close around his words.

“And if we end up dead? What will it have been for? Say we die, and the French march on Moscow, and the Tsar surrenders, and it’s all over but we’re gone. What’s the purpose in it?”

Fedya didn’t have an answer for that. His thoughts had turned inwards. Whatever Anatole had felt, whatever awful anxiety had been crawling under his skin, had tangled itself in his head.

He had forgotten how it felt to be afraid. He could hardly remember the last time he had felt fear lapping at his heels. Suddenly he longed for warmth again. He wanted to embrace Anatole, close the distance between them and hold him until morning. This man who he loved. This man who wouldn’t him love in return.

He thought of Bolkonsky, longing for the fiancée he would never return to and the sister he would never see again, and the weight of it grew painful and daunting. Tomorrow there would be bloodshed. And there was nothing Fedya could do to stop it. He had no control here. No one did, really.

Fedya steadied his breathing. He had made a promise to Hélène. But looking at Anatole now, frightened and rundown and fragile, he wondered perhaps if he had broken it a little already.

If he came back alone, if he let it break any further, she would never forgive him. Perhaps more importantly, he would never forgive himself.

Unless.

Fedya almost smiled. It was a mad idea. Brilliant and terrible and obvious. The sort of thing Hélène herself might have concocted.

“Right, then,” he said, starting to his feet. “We’re leaving.”

Samira’s head snapped towards him.

Anatole’s eyes widened. “What?”

“We’ll desert. Simple as that.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I am. Soldiers do it all the time. And we have as good a reason as any.”

“This isn’t some game, Fedya. This is _treason_. If we were caught we’d be shot on sight—”

“And if you’re shot it’s over and done with. Would you rather take a bullet or lose your dæmon?”

Anatole recoiled. Danali, in protest, gave a sharp squeak.

“We’ll pack our bags and run,” Fedya continued. He gathered his coat off the ground and stuffed it into his rucksack. His ammunition box went next. “If we sneak off before the Sun rises, no one will even realize we’re missing till morning. We’ll head to Petersburg and—”

“Petersburg!” said Anatole. “Have you gone mad? We’d never make it!”

“We won’t be walking all the way. Moscow is due east. We’re not all that far-off. Balaga owes me a favor. We’ll call in, borrow a troika and a few horses, and—no, that’s too slow. We’ll board a train. There’ll still be trains running. They’ll need supplies. Mail.”

“We’ve no money for tickets,” said Anatole. “No travel papers—”

“Bezukhov’s still in Moscow, isn’t he? We’ll scrounge some money out of him, the miserable bastard, and if he’s not guilty enough to pay up, we’ll make him.”

“Fedya, we can’t just—”

“We most certainly can. He owes you, what with everything that’s happened. We’ll get the money from him and buy our tickets, then we’ll board a train to Petersburg and find Lena there. And then we’ll all run together. Wherever we want. Paris. London. Budapest. Anywhere in the world.”

Anatole caught him by the sleeve and pulled him down so that their faces were level. “You’ve lost your goddamn senses. What will they think of us? Traitors and fugitives! We’ll never be able to show our faces in society again. We’ll be dead to all of Russia.”

Fedya grasped him by the elbows. “Don’t you see, Tolya? We’ll be _alive_. We can figure out the rest later. It won’t matter. There’s no point in staying here.”

At that precise moment, the naphtha lamp, which had been flickering for the past ten or so minutes, snuffed out, and the tent went dark. Fedya reached over to re-light it. Slowly, it sputtered back to life, but the fuel was all but burnt through and the light was weak. In its glow, Anatole’s face was troubled and half-shadowed.

“Tolya,” Fedya said, “do you trust me?”

“I don’t know.”

“But can you?”

Anatole hesitated. The most thoughtless man in all of Russia, pensive, for perhaps the first time since Fedya had met him. Danali crawled onto his shoulder and regarded Fedya with curious dark eyes.

“I can try,” he said finally.

“Then pack your bag,” said Fedya. “And be ready to run.”


	32. A Eulogy for Anatole Kuragin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The characters face different and yet similar kinds of adversity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading folks! This fic is a Whole monster, but we've got lots coming! Your readership means the world to us!
> 
> Just a heads up, there are some references to parental emotional abuse in this chapter. And, as we're sure is pretty clear, we've played kind of fast and loose with some of the traditions of the Orthodox Church (one of us was raised in it, so we promise we're not being disrespectful to a religion neither of us has experience with).

The letter arrived that Monday.

Forty thousand dead. The Russian defenses fallen, in frantic retreat to Moscow to defend the city walls in an effort that might prove to be fruitless, while the French marched onwards. _Your son was among the fallen_ , it read. _No body was recovered_.

_We extend our deepest sympathies for your loss._

Aline wept and screamed and threw things and Vasily locked himself in his office, and the house went dark, as if all its light had been snuffed out. Hélène stood in the front hall and stared at the door she had last seen Anatole in four months ago. The outline of his silhouette, cut by the morning sunlight and tinged with silver. He had smiled then, she remembered, afraid but not wanting to be so, not wanting her to be afraid for him. Anatole, the greatest coward on earth. Her selfish stupid little brother. The light of her life. Dead.

It couldn’t be. It _couldn’t_.

“Fedya promised,” she said, in a voice so weak and small and distant that it couldn’t possibly have been hers. “He promised me, he told me he wouldn’t let—”

She was cut off by Dahanian’s pained howl. Only now that they were alone had he allowed himself to cry.  Still whimpering, he brushed up against her leg. “He’s gone, Lena.”

“Wouldn’t we know?” she said. “If something had happened to them? Wouldn’t we have felt it?”

“Lena—”

“They said there was no body.”

“It’s war, Lena. There were thousands killed. He’s probably in a trench somewhere, or a mass grave—”

Spitefully, maliciously, unwilling to hear the rest of what he had to say, Hélène brought her foot down on the end of his tail. Dahanian recoiled with an injured yelp. As he did, white-hot pain flashed up her spine, as if someone had taken to her lower back with a burning poker, and she cried out with him.

“You’re glad he’s gone, aren’t you?” she snarled, rounding on him. “You were the one who said I should’ve left him in Moscow. You’ve never loved him. You’ve always thought he was an annoyance, and—”

“And you let him take the blame!” shouted Dahanian. “You’re the reason he was sent off. This is _your_ fault.”

Hélène stood back. She and Dahanian regarded each other as strangers would.

The silence of the house, after that, was maddening.

Hours muddled by, until it was as dark outside the house as it was inside. Aline did not come to dinner that evening. Hélène didn’t dare ask why.

Vasily’s face was expressionless as he seated himself at the head of the table, dressed in a mink-lined smoking jacket and velvet slippers. Black. There was something vaguely performative in the whole affair, though Hélène couldn’t put her finger on it exactly.

She shouldn’t have been surprised. Vasily Kuragin, mourning as if he had learned how to by reading a book. Already the very image of paternal grief. They would eat that up, once the family began taking sympathy calls. It was perfect, and sickening, and it suited him perfectly.

If the food had any flavor at all, she was too distracted by her own thoughts to enjoy it.

“You haven’t changed your clothes,” Vasily said. The first words he had spoken to her all day.

“No,” she said, looking down at her plate, then her skirt beneath the table. She had worn purple today. “I didn’t think to.”

“You should. One would almost think you weren’t mourning your poor brother.”

Hélène flinched. She had heard her father’s voice that cold before. Heard her own speaking with the same intent to wound. She had been this way with Pierre, back before it had all unraveled. Hurting him with words for the sake of her own image. Out of anger. Out of boredom. And it was Vasily who had made her this way, who had taught her cruelty and self-preservation and image above everything else.

She was her father’s daughter after all.

Vasily allowed the silence to stretch, his eyes dark and unreadable. “We’re going to be entertaining well-wishers tomorrow. You’ll have to find something black to wear.”

Hélène nodded.

“I’ve arranged for a small memorial service in lieu of a proper funeral,” he continued. “I’ve written Ippolit to inform him. I expect he’ll be here within a matter of days.”

Hélène nodded again.

Vasily regarded her the way he would a broken clock, or a particularly troublesome chess board. Calculating. Working out a puzzle with his eyes. “You aren’t as distraught as I had assumed you would be.”

Hélène bit the inside of her cheek. Shame colored her face. “I am distraught,” she said.

“You look flushed. But not as though you’ve been crying.”

Hélène flushed a little further, feeling for all the world like a pinned insect under a looking-glass.

Vasily stared for another few moments. Whatever he was searching for, he mustn’t have found it. “What really happened that night, Elena?” he said finally.

“Nothing,” she said to the floor. “He was innocent, Papa. It wasn’t what you thought it was.”

He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, evaluating her. “I don’t believe you.”

Hélène tensed in her seat. The quiet that followed seemed to promise anger.

A door opened on the other side of the room, and the butler skirted in with his Barbet-dæmon at his heels.

“Prince Kuragin,” he said. “There’s a visitor for you at the door, sir.”

Vasily gripped his cutlery so tightly his knuckles went white. “We’re not entertaining,” he snapped.

“It’s Madame Scherer, sir.”

Vasily’s anger didn’t abate; rather, it seemed to disappear into his eyes. “Very well,” he said. Checking his pocket watch, he rose to his feet and pushed his chair in. “See her into the parlor, if you would.”

And then he was off, and she was on her own again and just as lonely as ever.

Hélène felt like a ghost haunting her own home. She drifted through the halls, aimless, a wandering spectre followed by a silver shadow that still walked a few feet away from her, every inch of space between them hanging heavy with guilt.

After some time, she came upon an old forgotten drawing room in the east wing of the house. Drafty and cold, with too-high ceilings and wallpaper gone grey with dust. Pale blue light puddled in from the window overlooking the upright piano, ghostly, ancient-looking, like an apparition swirling with fog. The illusion was broken by the flickering yellow glow of a naphtha light in the far corner of the room.

Aline was sitting on the floor in front of the chaise with the lamp precariously balanced in her lap and an empty glass bottle in one hand. Her face was pink and swollen, half-lit in gold and half in blue. Strewn across the floor at her feet was a crumpled black cloth and the back of a framed canvas propped against the table. On the wall above her head Hélène saw a visible square that the dust hadn’t yet taken to where the paper clung to its color.

Aline raised her head as she caught sight of Hélène standing in the doorway and hurriedly tucked the bottle under the chaise.

“Elena,” she said. Still dressed in a pale blue morning gown. She hadn’t changed either.

“You never came to dinner,” said Hélène. “I was worried.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“What are you doing in here?”

“Nothing, nothing,” said Aline, sounding desperately as if she wished to be left alone. She straightened her shawl and sat up, replacing the naphtha lamp on the table. “I just felt like taking a walk, that’s all.”

“And what are you looking at?” Hélène said, reaching for the canvas.

“Really, Elena—”

Hélène stopped breathing for a moment.

It was Anatole. Only younger. Time and age had reshaped his features and thinned his face into the one she knew, but the resemblance, crafted by a painter’s hand, was unmistakable. Standing at his side was a beautiful silver-spotted leopard. Not Dahanian. But similar. Similar enough that she doubted anyone else would be able to notice the differences.

Slowly, wordlessly, she sank to the chaise to sit beside Aline.

“He looks so young,” she said.

Aline sighed. “He was eleven. It’s a good likeness, isn’t it?”

It was. It was like looking at him, flesh and blood. Like the boy in the painting might leap out of the frame at any second. Hélène found herself unable to form any words. She nodded mutely instead.

Aline smiled tightly. “We—I’m not sure how much of this you remember—but Danali became a snow leopard and stayed that way for a few weeks. We were so convinced it was the real thing that we went and had this made.”

Hélène laughed. The sound of it seemed to echo. “I remember. I was so angry at them. I thought they were copying me and Danochka.”

“They were good actors, weren’t they?” Aline’s face darkened. “We had to hide it once she properly settled. People started thinking it was Dahanian he was holding.”

Hélène swallowed heavily. So, she realized with morbid fascination, that must have been where the rumors had started.

“I was so proud when Danali settled,” Aline said softly. She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. “I know your father wasn’t happy, but I was. ‘That’s the Mamontov in him,’ I said. Your aunts all had minks and otters and polecats and the like. I was so happy at least one of my children would take after me.”

At that, Galian clambered out from under the chaise and onto Aline’s shoulders.

“I know, Mama,” said Hélène.

“You’ve always been like your father,” she murmured. “So headstrong. So proud. But I worry about you, Elena. I know how much Tolya meant to you. You don’t have to be brave for me.”

“I thought I would know,” Hélène said quietly. “I thought I would feel something.”

Aline’s bottom lip wobbled. She drew Hélène into her arms and squeezed her shoulders tightly.

“I’d always wanted a daughter,” she whispered. “The day you were born was the happiest day of my life. I was the one who chose your name, you know.”

“I didn’t,” Hélène said, drawing back. “You never told me.”

“It’s Greek. It means ‘torch’. It’s the same as mine.”

Hélène bit her lip as a strange sort of pride rose in her chest. Had she ever felt this way about Aline before?

The criticisms had started around the same time Hélène had moved from the nursery to her own room. She was too plump, her mother would say, or her hair was too curly, or her complexion too dark, or her laugh too false. At the age of fourteen, nervous and excited for her debut, Hélène had gone to Aline and asked how she looked, and Aline had shaken her head and sighed, _that color is far too bright on you, Elena, what on earth were you thinking, honestly_ , and the excitement had petered out into a dull, embarrassing ache, and for the rest of the evening and a good portion of the next week, Hélène hadn’t been able to shake the burning disappointment of Aline’s voice, hurt and angry that her mother’s opinion would sting so deeply or mean so much.

The rest of her childhood had carried on in a similar fashion. For some time, she had been angry—resentful of Anatole, who Aline doted on, and jealous of Ippolit, who Aline ignored. Gradually that had faded to apathy.

Hélène wasn’t entirely sure what it was she felt anymore. But it certainly wasn’t anything that she had felt before.

Aline reached out one hand to touch the canvas. She traced her fingers over the darker streaks of blonde at Anatole’s roots, his flushed cheeks, the flecks of grey in his eyes.

“This was silly of me,” she murmured. “I wanted—I suppose I thought it would make me feel better.”

Something in Hélène crumpled. She looked again at the two of them now—herself, disbelieving and vacant, thoughts spiraling off into nowhere; Aline, crying alone in an old drawing room with a bottle of God-knew-what and a painting of her dead child.

Clinging to hopes and prayers, the two of them. Perhaps they weren’t all that dissimilar after all. Hélène shifted under the discomfort of the realization, then the sting of pity.

Aline sighed and squeezed her eyes shut and dropped her chin to her sternum. Hélène saw fresh tears tracing their way down her cheeks. Aline’s shoulders hitched, but only once, and then she gritted her teeth and raised her head again.

“You kept him safe when I couldn’t,” she said finally. “Thank you for that.”

No, Hélène thought. She didn’t deserve the thanks. What had she ever done? Gotten him throttled. Gotten him run out of Moscow. Gotten him sent off to the war. No. She had never been able to protect him, not really. And Anatole had known that long before she had let go of enough pride to admit it to herself.

“I didn’t,” Hélène said haltingly.

“Elena—”

“This is my fault,” she whispered. “I tried, Mama, I only wanted to protect him but—”

“This is not your fault,” said Aline. “None of it. This, this is…” Her voice trailed off aimlessly. She blinked, swallowed down whatever train of thought she had been following, and abandoned it altogether. “We’ve all made mistakes. And I’m sorry for everything I’ve done wrong. I wasn’t the mother you deserved. I wasn’t to any of you. But I hope you know that I love you. I love you so much, my darling.”

A twinge of pain shot through Hélène’s heart. It occurred to her that in her twenty-seven years, she had never heard her mother utter those words before.

Her throat tightened. She leaned her head against Aline’s shoulder, curling one hand in the fur at Dahanian’s neck, and whispered, “I love you too, Mama.”

Aline began to stroke Hélène’s hair, softly humming under her breath. A nameless lullaby, something sweet and achingly familiar.

Some time later, Hélène drifted off against her mother’s shoulder, her sleep troubled by visions of faceless men and a sky filled with fire.

* * *

 

Early September had stripped Moscow’s air of its warmth, the forewarnings of autumn, but with the curtains drawn and the lights of the parlor leaking in through the door, the sunroom hummed with a quiet rosy glow. Khione had made a comfy seat for herself on the Turkish bench by the window in a patch of sunlight, Sonya was sneaking sweets to Tobery under the table, and Marya was wheedling a rather bemused-looking Pierre, who was busy slicing up the cake, for another glass of champagne.

“You wouldn’t prefer some of the tokay?” he said even as he reached for the bottle.

“Absolutely not,” Marya said, holding out her glass with a slightly wobbly hand. “It disagrees with me.”

Marya gave a satisfied smile as Pierre finally obliged her.

“There we go,” she said, and nodded for him to keep pouring. “That’s a good lad. You’re too generous old friend, really.”

Sonya leaned over to Natasha and whispered, just quietly enough that Marya wouldn’t overhear, “God help us. I think that’s her fifth glass this evening.”

Natasha nudged Sonya’s shoulder. “So you have some catching up to do.”

Sonya grimaced, but there was laughter in her eyes. “Absolutely not. The last time I drank champagne, I gave an impromptu speech at someone’s wedding.”

“And you were so _sweet_ ,” Natasha said in a sing-song voice. “Maybe I ought to get you drunk more often.”

“What are you two gossiping about?” Marya cut in.

“How lovely you look today,” Sonya answered.

Had Sonya addressed her with such open snark when they had first arrived in Moscow, Natasha wouldn’t have put it past Marya to have Sonya thrown out of the house. But now Marya only rolled her eyes with an affectionate, “Cheeky.”

Well, Natasha supposed, things had a way of settling into place. As for herself, the changes in her were a little more obvious to the eye. Today she wore a gauzy cotton gown in blue so pale it was almost white, its empire waist tied off with a blue satin ribbon. In the past few months her belly had gotten so large that none of her old things would fit. The skirt on this dress, floaty and forgiving on her generous figure, was nothing short of a godsend, which was all the more evident as she cupped her stomach and pulled the fabric taut to see what it had hidden.

Pierre set a plate of cake in front of her and kissed her temple. “Here you go, my darling.”

“Look how big you’ve sliced it!”

“Of course,” he said, and winked at her. “It’s your name-day. If I can’t spoil you now, when can I?”

Natasha smiled back at him as she took to it with her fork. Marzipan, filled with strawberry jam. Exquisite. Little Drushya had made her into a ravenous eater and a wildly eccentric one at that, much to the growing dismay and confusion of the poor chef. Natasha could have licked the plate clean without so much as an ounce of shame.

Once he had cut everyone else a slice and seated himself, Pierre reached across the table and spooned another dollop of strawberry preserves onto her plate. Natasha melted a little inside, and not just at the taste. How thoughtful he was. Her own sweet bear. That morning, he had surprised with her breakfast in bed and a lovely necklace with a sapphire pendant nestled in a blue velvet box and a whispered, _happy name-day, Natalya_.

Natasha had laughed—until that moment, she hadn’t remembered that it was her name-day at all.

“It’s only a little something,” he had said, perhaps thinking that the laugh was meant in mockery. “If you don’t like it, I can always—”

And she had cut him off there by pulling him down for a kiss that tasted of tea.

“It’s beautiful,” she had said, once they broke apart. “Thank you, darling.”

Almost without thinking, Natasha’s hand drifted now to the pendant and rolled it around beneath her fingertips. A little below the waist she felt a peculiar fluttering in her, the sort that usually preceded a kick, then the kick itself. Natasha jumped at the jolt, and Adrastos gave an alarmed chirp and leapt from the table to her shoulder.

“Tasha?” Pierre said. He rounded the table, his eyes wide and worried. “What’s wrong? Are you—?”

“He’s just kicking again,” Natasha said. She looked down at her stomach. “Trying to kick his way out, I think. Impatient little thing.”

Pierre bent, kneeling until his face was level with her navel, his eyes wide and wondrous as a child’s. Natasha shook her head in amusement. No matter how often it happened—and it had happened many, many times by now—he still reacted with as much awe as the first time.

“Hello, Drushya,” he said to her stomach. “Did you want to wish Mama a happy name-day?”

“He must want more of the cake,” Marya said with a grin.

“I’d give it to him if he’d let me have a moment of peace,” said Natasha.

“Mama and I love you so much already,” Pierre continued, “and so do your Auntie Sonya and your godmother. We’re all very excited to meet you. But perhaps you could kick Mama a teeny bit less.”

Natasha laughed and threaded her fingers through his curls. Pierre’s knees cracked audibly as he straightened up and sat in the chair to her right.

“I remember when Aunt Natalya was pregnant with Petya,” said Sonya through a mouthful of marzipan. “He was such a feisty little thing. Always kicking too.”

“Still is a feisty thing,” Marya said. “He tried to talk me into giving him brandy at the wedding. The nerve!”

“Do you remember when she was pregnant?” Sonya asked Natasha.

Natasha rolled her eyes. “You’re a year older than me.”

“Well,” Sonya said, turning to address Marya and Pierre with a decidedly wicked gleam in her eye, “one day right before she was about to give birth, Aunt Natalya told Tasha she should feel little Petya saying hello.”

Natasha, recognizing where this would go, leaned sideways and tried to press her hand over Sonya’s mouth. “Shut up!”

Sonya ducked out of the way. “So she had Tasha put her ear on her stomach, and Petya gave the hardest kick of his life—”

“You _traitor_ —!”

“—and poor Tasha was so frightened by it that she screamed and ran upstairs and hid in her room!”

Marya and Pierre burst into laughter.

Natasha playfully swatted Sonya’s shoulder. “You’re horrid.”

Still chuckling, shaking her head, Marya leaned back in her seat and took another sip of her champagne. “Ah, Natalya. Our little Cossack. You were always such a spirited child.”

“And you’ll make a wonderful mother,” Sonya said with a soft smile.

Natasha cupped her stomach. Another flutter against her palms. “With a little Cossack of my own.”

Sonya tilted her head and pursed her lips. “I wonder what his dæmon will be.”

“A bird,” Marya said confidently. “Every Rostov has a bird.”

“He’ll be half a Bezukhov too,” said Pierre.

“Pierre, darling,” said Marya over the rim of her glass, “I should be most grateful if none of your children take after your father.”

Sonya guffawed, then clapped a hand over her mouth to cover it.

“Well,” Pierre said, blinking, “well, I suppose that’s—”

“It doesn’t matter what his dæmon settles as,” Natasha said. “I only want him to be healthy and happy.” Another hiccup bubbled up in her chest, and she added, “And for him not to kick me to bits before he gets here!”

A smile curled Sonya’s lips as she stroked Tobery between the ears. “I think he’ll take after his mother.”

“I hope he does,” said Pierre. He leaned over and delicately kissed her stomach, right at the spot the baby had kicked at minutes earlier. “She’s a wonderful person to take after.”

Natasha swelled with pride. How could she have been any happier? Here in this beautiful house, surrounded by her dearest loved ones, in perfect health, excitedly awaiting her child. She had Marya, who no doubt would have shot a man clean through the heart if he so much as looked at her the wrong way, and Sonya, who told jokes at anyone’s expense to make her laugh.

And Pierre.

If this wasn’t love in the purest sense, then nothing else could have been. Natasha’s heart grew heavy with the ache of it. She must have been the luckiest woman in Moscow to have a husband like him. And he must have been the luckiest man in Moscow to be here at all.

Pierre’s poor eyesight and flat feet had spared him from conscription only a month earlier. _These blessings come to us under the guise of misfortune,_ Marya had said then. _You can’t say the same for everyone_.

No, Natasha thought, remembering her words. You really couldn’t.

Reports of the battle of Borodino had circulated through Moscow with all the merciless swiftness of wildfire, equally merciless in their description of the casualties. Tens of thousands of men, nameless, faceless, growing cold and stiff in the fields to the west, never to return home. Fathers and brothers and sons and nephews and uncles, grizzled dogs of war and fresh-faced boys plucked from the countryside, French and Russian alike.

Anatole Kuragin among them.

She held no care for him anymore. Hadn’t for a while. _Dislike_ would’ve been a more fitting description, _contempt_ closer still. But there was an odd ache in her chest, growing deeper and more pointed with every breath she took, and a lump rising in her throat.

Pierre leaned over and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Are you alright, darling? You look worried.”

To her embarrassment, Natasha realized that her eyes were welling with tears. She blinked them away. She was happy today. This was meant to be a happy day. “I’m fine,” she said.

“It’s alright if you’re not fine.”

Natasha shook her head. “It’s nothing. Really. I’m only being silly.”

“If it’s upsetting you, it’s not nothing.”

His kindness hurt sometimes, she thought. And it wasn’t nothing, but it should have been—it was Hélène who had lost her brother, after all, and perhaps her soldier from the opera as well. She would be mourning now. Hélène, that beautiful, selfish, awful woman. There was tenderness in her heart, surely, somewhere beneath the charming French words and her manipulations, and there was love—there must have been—and if there was love for Anatole then there was grief for him too. And there was enough grief in the world as things stood, and Natasha shouldn’t have let an ounce more of it in her. It was silly of her. It was childish and pointless. It made no sense.

Little did, these days, it seemed.

Natasha looked down at the floor, fear and shame and hurt and regret burning in her face all at once. “I can’t stop thinking of them,” she whispered. “How that could be you.”

For a long moment, none of them said anything. Sonya drew in on herself. Marya’s hand, the one still firmly clamped around her half-filled glass, wobbled, threatening to spill her drink. Out the window and across the street, the church bells tolled out the hour.

At the last bell, Pierre sighed and set his teacup aside. “No one’s safe in a war, Tasha.”

“I know that.”

“Tasha,” Sonya murmured.

Natasha looked up. “They’ll be coming to Moscow next, won’t they?”

Marya and Pierre sat back. Sonya’s face darkened.

“Won’t they?” Natasha pressed. “And what then?”

“We will not discuss politics at the dinner table,” Marya said sternly. “I won’t allow it. We are here to celebrate you, not to trouble ourselves with talk of war. We must keep our spirits high. That’s all we can do now.”

Natasha sniffled. Sonya handed her a tissue.

From the front hall they heard a loud knocking at the door. Pierre started to his feet, and Marya waved him down.

“Let the maid take care of it,” she said.

Pierre looked unconvinced as he sank back to the chair. “We didn’t invite anyone else. Did we?” The furrows of his brow deepened. “Have I forgotten someone?”

The knocking continued with growing insistence.

“No, it was only us,” said Sonya.

Natasha folded the tissue into a small square, still sniffling. “Dunia doesn’t actually answer the door, Marya. Pierre’s always taken care of that.”

Marya looked appalled. “You mean to tell me you hired a maid and the lazy thing won’t even answer the door for you?”

“It always felt rude to make her do it,” said Pierre.

More knocking. Quite red in the face now, Marya slammed her glass onto the table and shouted into the hallway, “Dunia, you dimwit!”

Dunia scurried down the stairs, a terrified look on her face. “Madame?”  

“The _door_ , Dunia,” she snapped.

Nodding, no less terrified, Dunia dashed off to the front hall. Marya turned back to the table and rolled her eyes despairingly.

“Honestly, Pierre,” she said, “some days I question your sense.”

“You did recommend her to us.”

“And had I not, I shudder to imagine the state your house would be in.”

Natasha laughed, her earlier upset forgotten. “He keeps his books tidy enough.”

“He keeps them tidy for you,” Sonya said out of the corner of her mouth.

Pierre flushed. “I—well, I find I’ve discovered an appreciation for being a bit neater with my surroundings. It’s more conducive to positive thinking.”

“I should live that long,” said Marya. “Well, in any case, I’m proud to see how you’ve come along, even if your staff is something of a—”

Marya cut herself off in mid-sentence and set her glass aside with a strange air of propriety, the way she might had she been caught saying something improper. Natasha followed her eyes.

Dunia had appeared in the doorway, ashen-faced. Already a petite woman, she was dwarfed by the man who stood behind her, a thin-faced fellow dressed in a black coat.

“The Church Inquisitor is here to see you, sir,” she said.

A deathly silence fell over the room. Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha caught a glimpse of Pierre, whose face had gone chalk-white. She wondered if her own face betrayed the same terror. If he was thinking of the same thing.

The taboo. That evening, in the secrecy of the study, they had written down everything they felt and thought and knew. Those notes, lying open on the desk for anyone to see behind a door neither of them had ever bothered to lock. The texts she and Pierre had pored over, Rusakov’s essays and dissertations and annotations. The banned books rescued from the shelves of Kirill Bezukhov’s library. Damning. Every last one of them.

Natasha readied herself for the worst.

Marya was sober in an instant. As she stood up to greet him, she angled herself in front of Natasha and Sonya, shielding them from his view. It was a gesture so subtle that Natasha would never have noticed, had she not known Marya so well.

“Would you care for a slice of cake, Inquisitor?” she said. Unfazed. Truly the bravest woman in all of Russia.

The Inquisitor bowed his head. “Mihail Mihailovich Speransky,” he said, raising one hand. “No need for the formalities. And no, thank you. I really shouldn’t.”

“Some tea, then,” Marya said.

“No tea either, Madame. I would hate to impose on your hospitality any more than necessary. I’m only here to speak to the Count and Countess.”

Something clenched around Natasha’s heart. She recognized it, a moment later, as dread.

“Of course,” said Marya. She took her seat, crossing her ankles.

“Privately, if you don’t mind, Madame.”

“Oh,” Marya said. “Very well, then.”

She shepherded Dunia and Sonya down the corridor and cast a baleful look over her shoulder as the door closed behind her. Speransky took his seat across the table opposite Pierre and Natasha and smiled as he took in the room. His dæmon was a beautiful white dove, like Adrastos, but smaller, with a tail tipped in grey instead of cream.

“I should congratulate you, Countess,” he said to Natasha. “Motherhood suits you beautifully.”

Natasha forced herself to smile. Despite her best efforts, her heart would not stop thundering. She wound the end of the necklace around one finger. Speransky’s eyes followed the pendant. “Thank you, Monsieur.”

“‘Everything worldly is dust and ashes’,” he said in a strange, clipped voice, as if reciting from memory or reading from a book. “‘Only faith and good deeds are pleasing to God.’”

Natasha dropped her hand. “Pardon?”

Speransky smiled. “Saint Natalia of Nicomedia. I thought it was appropriate, given the occasion.”

“Oh,” said Natasha. “Yes, of course.”

Pierre cleared his throat. His hands fiddled with the buttons of his waistcoat. His left foot tapped out a quickfire non-rhythm against the floor. Natasha hadn’t seen him so ill at-ease since perhaps the night before their wedding.

She would have to be brave, then, for the both of them, and for Drushya as well.

“Might I ask what this is about?” she asked Speransky. Then, thinking ahead, she added, “I know illness has often kept my husband from Church, but he’s pursuing his studies of the Bible in his absence.”

“I’ve come to speak with you, actually. We had some questions concerning your union as husband and wife.”

Oh, Natasha thought, allowing herself a mote of relief. Well, this wasn’t nearly as horrible as it could have been.

“The Church permitted and blessed our marriage, Monsieur,” she said. “Pierre was lawfully divorced some months before we were wed. I’m sure whatever this is was only a misunderstanding.”

“Therein lies our concern. We were given to understand that your union would not be fruitful.”

Natasha swallowed. It went down stale and dreadful.

Speransky’s face remained calm and otherwise utterly devoid of emotion. But his dæmon couldn’t seem to stand still for more than a second. Natasha was unsure which of the two was more telling. Which to trust. “May I inquire as to the circumstances surrounding your pregnancy, Countess?” he said.

The dæmon, Natasha decided.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re asking, Monsieur,” she said.

Speransky gave a smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes. There was something lurking beneath that smile. Something frightening. “I’m sure you know it is the business of the Church to safeguard the divinity of all her children’s souls, born as well as unborn. And it is under her authority to protect the sanctity of marriage.”

Pierre winced. “This is…rather a private matter, Monsieur.”

“The private life is dead in Russia, Count Bezukhov,” Speransky said coolly. “The war has killed it.”

A shudder ran down Natasha’s spine.

Speransky turned back towards her. “There have been reports that you carried out an affair with Prince Anatole Kuragin earlier this year. Is this true?”

No.

God.

Not this.

Natasha pinched the skin of her inner wrist. She felt Adrastos’s claws in her shoulder, his little heart thrumming quickly, too quickly, faster than her own. This wasn’t happening. This must have been a night-ghast, or some awful daydream, or she had misheard him entirely. This wasn’t real. How could it have been? Had someone let something slip to the wrong person? But who? Hélène? Anna Pavlovna? Anatole himself?

“I don’t understand,” Natasha said.

Speransky looked to Pierre, as if expecting a reaction, and when he saw none, redirected his attention to Natasha.

“I’m sure it must have been overwhelming, coming to Moscow from the country. Impressionable young women often make foolish mistakes when faced with temptation,” he said.

Natasha loathed his calmness almost as much as she hated her own fear.

Speransky reached up and stroked his dæmon’s tail feathers. His face softened. “To err is to be human, Countess. It is in the nature of Dust once it settles on us to lead us to sin. We have all suffered from its corruption.”

Natasha bit down on her tongue until she tasted blood. Pierre’s face darkened.

“It is, sadly, too late for Prince Kuragin to confess and repent,” Speransky continued. “But it’s not too late for you. For your _child_.”

“I have nothing to confess to,” said Natasha.

Lying now. If this was her own grave she was digging, there was nothing to do now but go further down.

Now Speransky’s voice grew hard and foreboding. “You should know, Countess, that the punishment for fornication is severe. It’s not as severe as the punishment for perjury, however.”

Natasha flinched.

“Not to mention what will become of the child. Born out of wedlock with no father to provide for it. If he were alive now perhaps you could have been wed to amend for your wrongdoing, but—”

“For Christ’s sake, she’s done nothing wrong!” Pierre shouted. Khione stood with him, upending both the bench and the chair. “The child is mine. I’m not impotent, I never have been. It was all a lie. Insult my wife’s honor once more and I will throw you out of my house myself, so help me God.”

Speransky sat back in his seat and steepled his fingers under his chin, impassive. Natasha stared at her husband with a rising sense of grotesque pride and disbelief. Pierre’s broad chest rose and fell rapidly with angry, panicked breaths.

Finally, Speransky spoke again.

“I must thank you for your honesty, Count Bezukhov. That was most enlightening. We’ll be moving forwards with perjury charges now.”

Pierre’s face dropped in horror. “W-what?”

“You’ll be placed on house arrest, pending a full investigation by the Church into your conduct.”

“No,” Natasha breathed. “No, please, don’t do this.”

“ _Perjury_?” Pierre cried.

“Your divorce from Princess Kuragina was obtained under the pretense of impotency. You testified—to the Bishop and the Magistrate, no less—that the marriage was never consummated. By your own admission, this was a lie.”

Pierre seemed torn between bursting into tears and throwing the table at Speransky. “I never meant to lie. I had no say in the matter. She forced me— _threatened_ me. She was the one who wanted the divorce, not me. Tell the Magistrate to go after her instead.”

“Threatened you?” Speransky said, narrowing his eyes.

For a moment, Natasha’s heart stopped beating.

Pierre’s face grew dim and confused as he realized his mistake. “With only lies and slander, Monsieur.”

Speransky arched a disbelieving eyebrow. “We have heard a great deal about you, Pyotr Kirillovich. Perhaps not all of it is lies and slander.”

Pierre slowly sank back into his chair, as if the strings that had been holding him upright had been snipped, and Khione fell to her haunches with a bang that rattled the table and the light fixtures.

Under the table, Natasha reached for his hand and wove their fingers together. His palm was slick with sweat.

“We are under invasion, Monsieur,” she said somberly. “Surely there are greater concerns than the private matters of our family.”

“I can’t imagine a more serious concern that the state of a man’s soul or the sanctity of an unborn child’s sacrament.”

Pierre’s hand convulsed.

Speransky stood back from the table and pushed his chair in. “I must thank you for your hospitality, Countess Bezukhova. I hope you enjoy the rest of your name-day. We’ll be in touch.”

Natasha never did see him leave, because her eyes were trained on the floor, staring so intently she may very well have burned a hole through it. She heard his footsteps clicking down the hallway, then the front door opening and closing, and at her side, Pierre’s heavy breathing, and in her ears, the sound of her heart beating too loudly.

The baby gave another kick. Where she had once felt excitement, she now felt only dread.

The door creaked again. Natasha raised her head.

Marya, Sonya, and Dunia lingered in the hall as if afraid to enter. Their faces were grey and dismal. Had they been listening in?

“Is everything quite alright?” Marya asked, sounding as if she knew the answer already. “What did the gentleman want to speak about?”

Pierre raised a shaking hand to fix his spectacles and the collar of his shirt and said nothing.

“Tasha?” Sonya said quietly. “Tasha, what happened?”

Natasha let out a choked sob and wrapped her arms around her stomach and folded over on herself. Grief and confusion and anger rushed through her, overwhelming and merciless. Andrei. Anatole. Princess Mary. Vera. Drushya. Speransky. All of it, every little ounce she had bottled up and pushed down and tried to ignore, she no longer could hold inside of her.

Natasha made almost no sound as she cried.

“Go and brew some chamomile tea, Dunia, dear,” Marya said quietly. “Please.”

Dunia nodded and disappeared back into the hallway. Natasha felt Sonya’s hand brush her shoulder, but Marya pulled her away with a hushed _later, Sonyushka_.

Natasha straightened up, tears still streaming down her face. Pierre reached over and took her hand. Of the two of them, she couldn’t tell who was trembling harder. “I’ll fix this, Tasha,” he said shakily. “We’ll figure something out. I’ll make this right, I swear it.”

“How?” she said. Her throat burned, agony with every word. “You can’t fix this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“They’re going to come for us, Pierre. What will they do?”

“I’m so sorry, Tasha, I never—”

“And then what will happen to Drushya?”

Pierre bit his lip, suddenly looking far younger than his thirty years. Too young. Natasha, unable to bear the sight of it, turned away.

“Oh, God, Pierre,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut to fight the tears building there. “What have we _done_?”


	33. Ippolit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A familiar face returns to Kuragin Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fun fact @thewhiskerydragon asked me to share was that at some point in our friendship we started referring to each other as 'beech' and it never really went away, and when describing her prose style, one of us said it was 'verbose' and VERBEECH was born. Make of that what you will. 
> 
>  
> 
> Please be aware that this chapter contains references to emotional/ physical parental abuse. Read with caution!

Hélène wasn’t all that sure what she had expected, laying eyes on Ippolit again.

It had been three years since she had last seen her older brother, but in Moscow, three could just as easily have been a thousand. The letters they had exchanged were few and far between; the memories were just as fleeting.

Now at the landing, towards the end of the corridor where Hélène’s bedroom was, there stood a tall thin figure with a thick shock of dark curls, his travel coat unbuttoned, a suitcase under one arm. His dæmon was an ocelot, tawny-furred, with lovely mottled black spots and stripes decorating her coat. The man and his dæmon spoke to each other in hushed tones, soft French words that were too low to be heard. Neither of them had noticed her yet.

Hélène stared and did not speak as she pressed close to the wall, perhaps hoping to disappear into it altogether. She hadn’t remembered him being so tall. What else had she forgotten?

A small, sad fear crept in. Did he remember her? Or would they be strangers to each other?

 _One way to find out, Lena,_ said the voice in her head.

“Ippolit,” she said, breaking the quiet.

The figure turned, startled, at the sound of her voice. The suitcase fell from his hands to the floor.

Ippolit’s eyes were still the same hazel, halfway between her brown and Anatole’s blue, and his waistcoat was rumpled and buttoned up wrong—Paris, evidently, hadn’t been able to instill a sense of fashion in him, though God only knew what could—but there was an air of foreignness about him, in the strange tension of his posture, in the way he and Hélène stood a few too many feet apart as if afraid or unwilling to come any closer. She almost didn’t recognize him, this stranger who had once been her older brother.

Until Dahanian bent down and tentatively rubbed his cheek against Ilaria’s, and familiarity rushed back with all the force of a gale wind. Bittersweet. Painful. But stirring beneath it all was love.

Ippolit, emboldened, stepped forwards and drew her into a tight hug. He smelled of cologne and aftershave and the train station. After a brief moment of hesitation, Hélène threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.

She hadn’t realized how much she had missed this. She hadn’t thought she would ever miss Ippolit at all.

When he finally stepped back, Hélène thought she saw tears glittering in his eyes.

“Oh, Lena,” he said, “ _tu n’as aucun idée de combien tu m’as manqué, je ne faisais rien que m’inquiéter_ —”

“Could we please speak in Russian?” she said quietly.

Ippolit caught himself, his eyes wide, his mouth half-open. He probably hadn’t realized he was speaking French at all. “Right,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no—”

“It’s been so long,” he said. “God, I’d almost forgotten how it sounded. You’re right, of course, this is how it should be.”

There was a strange lilt to his voice now, almost Gaulish, the sort of affectation Anatole used to adopt to feign sophistication. Only in Ippolit, there was no falsity about it. Hélène’s mouth twitched. She didn’t know whether she wanted to cry or laugh.

“I missed you too,” she said.

Ippolit offered a feeble smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” he said raggedly.

“You’re here now. That’s…that’s all that matters.”

“Papa wrote me to tell me. I got the earliest train out.”

“It’s good that you’re home.”

“I know,” he said. “I’ve been home less than an hour and Mama’s already cried twice.” His voice cracked. “Papa is stoic as ever.”

Hélène frowned. “Are you alright?”

Ippolit wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. “I’m sorry, I’ll be alright. I’m holding it together. I just…” He clenched his hands into fists, so tightly that he trembled, as if searching for the rest of his sentence. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this. I shouldn’t have gone off to Paris in the first place.”

“Lito,” Hélène sighed.

“I didn’t know he was leaving so soon. God—I—I had no idea he was leaving at all.”

“None of us could have known this would happen.”

“He was my little brother. It was me who was supposed to go first, not him.”

“No, no, don’t say that.”

“He never wrote me, you know. He hadn’t since he was deployed to Poland. I haven’t seen him in years. And now we don’t even have a body to bury. I’ll never get to properly say goodbye.”

He was spiraling, drifting off again into one of his anxious spells. Ippolit’s voice and words grew more frantic and broken as he rambled on. Hélène heard a sob catch in his throat and saw color rising in his face. She squeezed his hand, the same way she would have done to Anatole. Three pulses. Grounding, a gesture of comfort. Ippolit closed his eyes and exhaled heavily.

“I know,” she said quietly. “I miss him too.”

“And how are you?” he said, collecting himself, with a false air of calm. “Are you alright?”

Hélène blinked, not understanding the question. “I don’t know how anyone could be.”

Ippolit looked as though he knew no more than she did. He laid a hand on her shoulder, the sort of thing he probably hadn’t done since about the age of eight.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Stupid question.”

Then he gathered his suitcase in his arms and retired to his room to unpack. Hélène watched him and Ilaria go and said nothing.

Shortly after, she was called to supper.

The Kuragins—what remained of them, at least—sat in silence as the maids brought the food out on platters. Tonight the places had been laid with silver, not gold as they usually were. Across the table from Hélène, where Anatole would have sat, there was no plate or cutlery or glass, only a bare tablecloth, harsh and barren white. Like a funeral shroud, Hélène thought, then scolded herself for it.

Aline had them say grace, but it wasn’t the same. Anatole would have kicked Hélène under the table and pulled faces and mimicked Aline while their parents weren’t looking, and Hélène would have laughed silently and Anatole would have laughed not-silently until Vasily caught their eyes with a stern glare.

None of that. Not now. Not anymore.

To say it was a torturously awkward affair would’ve been generous to a fault. Hélène picked at her food. The will to eat was difficult to come by. She kept her eyes low, focused on the table, the plate, the cutlery, anything to avoid her parents’ eyes. At the floor, Dahanian pressed himself to her shins, and his fur tickled through her skirt.

“Would you like something else to eat, _businka_?” Aline asked.

Hélène shook her head.

“Alright, love. Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Thank you, Mama,” she said quietly.

Aline gave her a tight smile, then reached across the table to squeeze Ippolit’s hand. “I’ve missed you, Polyshka. It’s certainly been strange not having you around the house.”

Ippolit flushed at the diminutive. “I missed you too.”

“But look how thin you’ve gotten! They mustn’t be feeding you properly in Paris.”

“I’m fine, Mama, really—”

“I’ll have the cooks make a little extra for you. Alright, darling?”

“Alright,” he sighed.

“How are your studies progressing, Ippolit?” Vasily cut in, speaking in French.

Internally, Hélène winced. If Anatole had been a mess of nerves around Vasily, then Ippolit had always been doubly so. She knew that better than anyone. She’d seen it more than enough times, how easily Vasily could tear him apart, word by word, and reduce him to tears without so much as raising his voice.

But Ippolit paused with only mild irritation. “Fine.”

“I see your writing has come along in strides since you began attending university.”

“I should hope it has,” he said.

“And what of your speech?” Vasily continued, unimpressed, pressing for fault. “I don’t suppose I have to remind you how you struggled with elocution before you left.”

“No,” Ippolit said curtly. “You don’t.”

“In any case, it would please me to know the tuition I’ve been paying hasn’t gone to waste.”

“It hasn’t.”

“How long are you planning on staying?”

Ippolit, who had grown quite flustered by now, wiped his mouth with his napkin and folded his cutlery along the side of his plate. “I don’t know. I haven’t planned for any of this. I didn’t expect to have to return home to mourn my little brother.”

“But you’ll have to finish your studies, won’t you?” Vasily said. “When does the semester end? Have you written to your professors to notify them of your absence? Did you look into purchasing your return tickets?”

“There are no more trains running from Russia to France.”

Ippolit’s voice broke through the room like the cracking of ice. In it was an undercurrent of boldness that hadn’t been there before. Hélène turned her head, startled.

“I beg your pardon,” said Vasily.

“There are no more trains running from Russia to France,” Ippolit repeated slowly, as if explaining to a stupid or stubborn child. “I won’t be able to return.”

“But what of your friends? Did you do as I told you? Did you introduce yourself to the men I told you about?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve already withdrawn from the university.”

Vasily seemed temporarily at a loss for words. A sight so rare Hélène almost didn’t believe it for a second. “That was incredibly foolish, Ippolit,” he said finally.

Ippolit shrugged sullenly, still not meeting his father’s gaze. “It’s done now. There’s nothing else I can do about it.”

“Of course there is. We’ll just have to find some way to rectify this mistake. You’ll re-apply for next semester.”

“I don’t want to. I’d like to have some time to mourn my brother with my mother and sister.”

“There’s a war going on, Ippolit,” Vasily said. “You ought to have expected that this was a possibility.”

Ippolit’s eyes flashed in anger. “He shouldn’t have been on the front line. He should have been in an office somewhere. An adjutant. A translator. A diplomat. Anything. You could have stopped this from happening.”

Hélène stared, not trusting her eyes or ears. The Ippolit she had known was shy and gawkish and silent at the dinner table. Awkward, stuttering Ippolit, who shied away from Vasily’s critical looks and kept his head and voice low for fear of disapproval. Ippolit the fool. Ippolit the coward.

This wasn’t that Ippolit. Or if it was, he had been irrevocably, undoubtedly changed.

“Perhaps Paris has made you forget your manners,” Vasily said, threat weighing heavy in each word. “But you are in my house, Ippolit. And you will hold your tongue. Is that understood?”

Ippolit cast his eyes down and glared at his plate. His hand trembled around his fork until his knuckles were white. “Yes, sir,” he said.

Vasily paused for a moment, as if to collect himself. He ordered the servants out with a sharp nod.

Never a good sign, that.

“I am disappointed,” he said eventually, with a heavy air of displeasure. “I had hoped you would have been more prudent in your judgement, what with national circumstances. You were supposed to take advantage of your time in Paris. The Imperial Army is in tatters. Napoleon is marching on Moscow as we speak.”

Aline’s face went white. “You don’t think we’ll have to leave, do you?”

“We won’t have to. I expect the Tsar will issue a surrender within the next few weeks. The French should arrive around that time.”

“We can’t _stay_ here, Vaska.”

“And go where, pray tell? Don’t be ridiculous. We aren’t going anywhere.”

“If we’re invaded—”

“The rules of war will still apply,” he said, folding his napkin. “The nobility are afforded certain protections. In any case, if the Emperor is to come to Russia, then we ought to set ourselves up so that we are in a position of advantage.”

“I will not play hostess to my son’s murderers.”

“Their presence could be to our advantage. Lavrov is no longer interested in Elena. Perhaps we could find a soldier who’s willing.”

Dahanian stood upright so forcefully that his head smacked against the underside of the table and sent the silverware and plates rattling. In her seat, Hélène went cold with dread.

Still planning. Always planning. Bezukhov and Lavrov had fallen through, and he was still scheming and plotting for every scrap of prestige and power he could get his hands on. Anatole was dead and the war that had killed him was raging on, and at the end of the day it was nothing more than a business opportunity for him to exploit.

It was a full five seconds before Aline could form a proper response.

“I don’t understand this.”

“It’s improper for a woman of her age to be unmarried. We are lucky to have this situation at our disposal.”

“But a _Catholic_ , Vasily?” she said, scandalized. “You can’t seriously be suggesting our daughter leave the Church she was baptized in.”

“She’ll have to. For her own good.”

Aline reached for his hand. “You’re scaring me, Vaska. What do you mean?”

“Elena won’t be able to remain in the Church. Count Bezukhov has remarried.”

“Count Bezukhov doesn’t enter into it. He’s still impotent, isn’t he?”

“I spoke to Anna Pavlovna recently. She’s heard word that Countess Bezukhova is pregnant.”

Aline furrowed her brow. “But…no, that’s only gossip. It was only Anna Pavlovna. You know how she is. You know how she loves the sound of her own voice.”

“The optics are still problematic. Besides, why would Bezukhov claim the child as his own if he knew it wasn’t?”

Realization crossed Aline’s features. Dread set in a moment later.

“As you can see,” said Vasily, “this has put us in something of a difficult situation.” He turned to stare down the table. “Perhaps Elena might offer us an explanation.”

Hélène shrank in on herself. Under the table, Dahanian tensed. It wasn’t an answer he wanted out of her. He had come to his own conclusions already; she could see it in his eyes. No, Vasily wanted a confession, an admission of her guilt, and her silence was tantamount to one.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said finally.

“You lied to the Magistrate. You lied to the Bishop. You perjured yourself to the Church. Didn’t you?”

Hélène kept her eyes downcast and didn’t dare to look up at him.

“Answer me, Elena.”

“Pierre forced me,” she said, a hurried excuse. “He was the one who wanted the divorce. I never—”

“You stupid girl,” he spat. “Don’t you realize what will happen once they find out? You may very well be excommunicated, if they don’t decide to imprison you as well.”

Hélène’s eyes bored into the blue-and-white flowers dancing around the rim of her plate.

Pierre’s fault. All his fault. Even now, even this far away and this far gone, he was still tormenting her. Still trying to ruin her. Was this his revenge? Or had she only brought this upon herself?

“So you see,” Vasily said as he turned back to Aline, “this is our only option. If she converts, her first marriage will be inconsequential. As will the perjury charges. If she stays here she is lost.”

Hélène froze in her seat. The blood in her veins ran cold as ice. He would do it, she knew in an instant. He would send her away again, and she would be alone in a strange country with a strange man and a language she barely spoke. There was no doubt at all in her mind.

“I don’t want this,” she said.

“What else is there left to do?” said Vasily. “No man in Russia will take you now. If you remain here, you will have ruined yourself and quite possibly the family name.”

“Surely we can explain the situation,” Aline said. “I’m sure the Church will understand that Elena never wanted the divorce.”

“She’s committed a serious crime, regardless of her intentions,” Vasily snapped.

“So has Pierre.”

“That’s none of our concern. I expect he will be punished too. But I’m primarily concerned about our daughter.”

“Pierre is a proud heretic,” Hélène said, hoping the boldness of her words would carry over the fear in her voice. “He has openly espoused anti-Tsarist views. And he’s questioned the Church’s teachings on more than one occasion.”

“And how do you suppose that will look?” Vasily said. “That you knowingly engaged with heretical materials and never told anyone?”

“I was afraid, Papa. Pierre’s a drunkard. He has his moods, and when he’s upset it makes him violent and cruel. He hurt Anatole. He almost killed him. We were living in fear, Papa. What else was I supposed to do? What if I had gotten him angry?”

Across the table, Aline let out a tiny pained gasp and reached for Galian.

“What did he do to Tolya?” she whispered.

Hélène felt as though her head had suddenly breached the surface of water. Her thoughts swirled around her in a dazed fog. No. This, again. Why had she said that? Why had she brought it back to that? Why hadn’t she left it in the past? What could she say, now that she had talked herself into a corner and the only truthful answer would ruin her even further?

“Elena,” said Aline, tearful now, “why did he hurt Tolya?”

Hélène said nothing and hated herself for it.

Vasily leaned forwards. The look on his face was that of a predator sizing up its prey. “You two were always far too close for your own good. I remember how he used to cling to you. And you encouraged it. You _liked_ having him follow you around like an obedient little dog. You opened your home to him in Moscow at your own insistence. I should have known better than to think it was out of altruism.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Hélène.

“You thought you were clever, did you?” he said. “Sneaking around behind your husband’s back, desecrating his house, having an affair with your own kin. You allowed him to be your scapegoat while you preserved your own reputation. You manipulated him just as you manipulated everyone around you.”

“ _Vasily_ —” Aline began.

Vasily spoke over her. “Did Pierre discover you and Anatole together? Was he too cowardly to do the honorable thing? Was that how you got yourself thrown out of Moscow?”

Hélène sat back in her seat, shocked into silence. Looking across the table at her father now, it was as if she were staring into Pierre’s eyes again, drunk on anger, incensed, _you sicken me_.

“How _dare_ you?” Ippolit spat, starting to his feet.

“Be quiet.”

“This is absolutely vile. Have you no heart at all? You sent your son off to die and now you’re going to drive the rest of your children away.”

“Hold your tongue, boy,” Vasily snarled.

“I will not!”

In one swift, well-practiced movement, Vasily raised his hand, and Ippolit flinched and sat back down without another word. Silence stretched for a long moment.

Vasily turned back to Hélène, his eyes burning coldly. “Had I known I was raising a viper under my roof, I would’ve cast you out years ago. You should count yourself lucky I don’t take you to the Church myself and allow them to decide what to do with you.”

Hélène felt her heart pounding in her ears. The awful tangle of confusion and indecision that had knotted itself together in her chest unraveled like string on a runaway spool, and suddenly she could see what she hadn’t before.

She hated him. With every bone in her body, with every beat of her heart, with every fiber of her being. There was no love at all in him, and perhaps there never had been.

“It’s not true,” Hélène said. To her own shame, her voice broke. She turned to Ippolit, cowed, his head held low, and looked again to her mother. “Mama, you know it’s not true.”

Aline caught her eye but quickly broke the contact. Shame clouded her features.

Hélène’s stomach sank.

“I suggest you consider your options carefully,” Vasily said coolly. “I’ve been more than gracious, given the situation, but I refuse to play host to an incestuous whore.”

Beneath the table, Hélène curled her hands into fists. No father was he. A businessman. A politician. They were both vipers, the two of them, and he had made her this way, in his own image. If this was to be her punishment, then she would make it his as well.

“You would have me commit treason,” she said, and made her voice low and cold and warning in the way he had taught her. “You would have me lie with the enemy. Against my church. Against my sovereign. Could you imagine the scandal, were people to hear?”

For a moment it seemed her words had shaken him. A beautiful, tantalizingly long moment. In Vasily’s face she saw shock, that she would dare speak to him in such a way. Recognition of his own cruelty in her. Then fury.

He sat up, bristling with a restless sort of energy, and rounded the table to her. Hélène flinched back on instinct and readied herself for the sting of a palm across her face, or perhaps even a fist. There was little she would put past him now.

But Vasily never did hit her. His hand closed around her arm, hard to the point of pain, and hauled her to her feet. Hélène felt herself tense.

“No, stop—”

And then she was bodily yanked upright and away. Her feet skittered against the floor for purchase, but there was none. Vasily pulled her along with all the effort of a cat holding a mouse. She heard Ippolit shouting after them and Aline weeping, animal snarling, a great cacophony of senseless noise. Struggling, crying, swearing, the tangle of them made their way up the stairs and down the hall to Hélène’s bedroom, where the door had been left open.

Vasily pushed her in and slammed the door shut behind her. The lock slid into place, a death-rattle. Hélène was breathing far too heavily. With a furious cry that was more wild animal than human, she threw herself at the door, battering at the wood with her fists.

“You can’t do this to me!”

“Vasily, please, she’s our _child_ ,” Aline cried.

“You’re a tyrant,” shouted Ippolit, “you’ve lost your goddamn senses—”

“Let me out!” Hélène shrieked.

Asteria roared, a guttural bellowing sound that sent the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

The house fell silent.

“Leave us,” Vasily ordered.

Hélène heard their cowardice and fear in their silence. Then the footsteps trudging off, like a funeral march, and a strange sort of coldness came over her.

Vasily’s presence loomed close, towering, tangible even through the door. “Take this opportunity to think and count your blessings,” he said.

Hélène stood back from the door, breathing hard. Shivers flew down her spine. Vasily’s footsteps faded off down the hall, boot heels clicking against marble, cold and militaristic, and the sound of it filled her with a great rush of fury and hatred, and she seized a porcelain vase off her top dresser shelf and threw it against the door with every bit of strength she could muster, where it shattered into a thousand pieces with a great bang.

It didn’t help. She wasn’t sure why she had thought it would.

Hélène began to pace with furious footfalls. Up and down the length of the room, circles around the carpet, wall to wall, the door to the fireplace and back again. Dahanian followed behind.

“What were you _thinking_?” he wailed.

“He can’t do this,” she said, her voice more a growl than his. “He won’t make me marry. He won’t send me off. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill myself. I’ll—I’ll run away.”

“Lena!” cried Dahanian.

“What do you care?” she snarled, rounding on him. “You’re a coward. You’ve always been a coward. You’ve always kept me from doing what I thought was right. I listened to you, and look where it got me. There’s nothing left. Tolya’s gone. Fedya’s gone. I have _nothing_.”

“You have me,” he said quietly.

“And a hell of a lot of good that’s done me,” she spat. “I’d rather be alone.”

Dahanian drew back, ears pressed flat against his head. She felt a deep pang of hurt, betrayal, only it must have been his, not hers, and she quashed it under all her fury and stubborn determination and turned away from him without a word. She wouldn’t stay. She couldn’t. She would die first.

Her mind set, Hélène began to rifle through her armoire, tossing things onto the bed. She could sense Dahanian’s reproach even across the room.

“You’ll have to speak to him eventually.”

“He won’t listen. He’ll never listen.”

“If you just apologized—”

“For what?” she snapped.

“You knew he would get angry, the way you spoke to him.”

“What he said was unforgivable.”

“He’ll forgive you if you say what he wants.”

“Never,” she said, and the words tasted filthy and tainted in her mouth. “I would never—and Mama didn’t even say a thing, and it’s all because of that goddamn painting!”

“They can think what they want, but we have to keep ourselves _safe_ —”

Hélène ignored him and proceeded to ransack her room.

Passports and travel papers. Sensible boots, round-toed with low heels. Perfume. Riding gloves, her heaviest winter socks, simple blouses and skirts for ease of movement. Jewels and brooches and pearls, to pawn when she arrived wherever it was she was going. Every spare ruble and kopek she could scrape together. Her old wedding ring. Her carpetbag fit them all with room to spare.

“Lena,” Dahanian started again.

“Hush.”

No. There was something else she had forgotten. Hidden away in the drawer of her bureau.

The statuette of Danali, nestled in its little velvet pouch with the drawstrings pulled tight. Hélène held it in her palm. She traced her fingers over the gentle sloping mound of its back, its little tufted tail, as if it would come to life at her touch.

Hélène slipped the figurine into her skirt pocket and hitched her carpetbag under one arm. In a few quick strides, she bridged the distance between herself and the window and flung its panes open. Outside, the air was chilled and the streets of Petersburg were darkening with evening, and the branches of the cottonwood tree stretched out before her as if in invitation.

It had been many years since she had last climbed it. But she had never fallen from it. She was not afraid of this. She _wasn’t_.

“What are you doing?” said Dahanian, from across the room.

There was no need for him to ask. He already knew. Everyone did—they had all tried it at some point, tested the limits of separation, seeing how far apart they could stretch, only to fold and come running back to each other with tears and open arms. Hélène couldn’t wander more than a few yards from him, nor Dahanian from her. Either he would remain, or she would pull until one of them caved.

“We’re leaving,” said Hélène, and gestured out the window. “Come along.”

Dahanian stood at the foot of the bed, unmoving. Hélène hauled herself onto the sill. Her chest ached as she strained against the invisible lines that bound them together. It deepened as she leaned forwards.

“I don’t want to go,” he said. “Don’t do this.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I’m frightened.”

“I don’t care.”

“Lena!”

Stubbornly, indignantly, Hélène pulled a little harder. Something sharp and painful tugged at her heart. She fought against it, burying it down, deep beneath her anger.

“Lena, stop!” he cried.

But she wouldn’t listen, and the pain in her heart only grew more and more unbearable until a great well of anguish and longing rose in her throat, and she knew it must have felt the same for him, because in a second he came bounding across the room in a blur of silver and grey and she and the carpetbag tumbled back down to the floor, and they crashed together, clinging to each other tightly with panicked, shaking sobs.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I really thought you would—”

“No, never, Danochka.”

“Please, don’t ever—”

“Never, never, I’m sorry.”

Hélène buried her face in Dahanian’s neck, and he nestled himself in her arms, purring low in the back of his throat, and in that moment she knew she would rather die than feel that kind of longing and misery again.

“Fedya talked about the separation,” she whispered. “I can’t even imagine—I’m so sorry.”

Dahanian’s breath hitched tearfully. “It hurt.”

“I know, I know.”

“You can’t leave me,” he whimpered. “Danali and Samira are already gone. I—I don’t know what I’d do if you were gone too. I don’t think I’d want to live.”

Hélène raised her head.

Gone. Gone and far away. Gone and separated. But not dead.

And in an instant, it was as if all the world had shifted into place, as though she had been walking with her eyes closed and her hands over her ears.

Dahanian’s ears pricked in recognition. “Lena?” he said.

“Of course they’re gone,” she said. “Danochka, they must’ve run!”

“What?”

“He’s a _coward_ ,” she said, a mad smile splitting her face. She began to pace again. Dahanian followed, his footprints muffled by the rug. “He’s a bigger coward than you. He’s the biggest coward in the world, our Tolya. And Fedya would die before he broke a promise. What if they’ve run off? They never even found the body—”

“You think they’ve deserted?” said Dahanian.

Hélène whirled around. “Of course they have. They’re not patriots, neither of them. They wouldn’t head into a battle knowing they’d lose. They’d run for the hills, my clever boys.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re out there.”

“Do you remember what Tolya said?” she asked. “That night, before he left? ‘Together in—’”

“—‘Together in Moscow’,” Dahanian finished.

Hélène nodded and wetted her lips with her tongue. She bent, crouching before Dahanian, and smoothed her hands through the fur along his cheeks. “We’ll go there. We’ll find them. Whatever it takes, we’ll figure something out.”

“And what if they’re not there?”

“We’re still here either way, and we’re damned if we stay. Don’t you see? We have to find them.”

“You’ll ruin yourself,” he whimpered.

“Danochka, my love,” she said, taking his face in her hands, “we’re beyond ruined already.”

Dahanian faltered. “But what will we do?”

“We got ourselves out of Moscow, didn’t we?” she said. “We can get ourselves back in. But I need your help. I can’t do this on my own.”

Dahanian was silent for a long moment. His eyes flickered across Hélène’s face, searching, unsure. He folded his ears back against his head. “Alright,” he said.

Hélène leaned forwards and kissed his forehead. Then she stood, straightening her back, and hitched her carpetbag up under her arm. Together she and Dahanian crossed the room and hauled themselves onto the sill and looked onwards. The precipice of something. Disaster, perhaps. Or maybe even salvation.

Whatever lay ahead of her, surely it couldn’t be quite as fearsome as what lay behind.


	34. Fugitives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet moment in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Us??? Writing fluff????

“You know,” Anatole said, as his foot caught on an upturned rock or log or _something_ for what must have been the thousandth time that day, “I think I’ve decided I’m not that all that fond of the woods.”

Fedya laughed. “Keep up, Tolya. Or I’ll get impatient and leave you behind.”

Which in all fairness was not an entirely unreasonable possibility. For the past week or so—or however long it had been; truly, he couldn’t tell the days apart anymore—they had carried on like this, Fedya pushing ahead with single-minded determination, Anatole with aching feet and endless complaints. However much headway they had made, again, he hadn’t the slightest idea, but Fedya seemed in good spirits, which was the sort of thing he had hoped for but hadn’t dared expect.

“As if you would,” Anatole retorted, about four seconds too slow for it to be a convincing answer.

“I might just. Don’t test me.”

Anatole must have stepped wrong or too far, because his foot broke through the earth, catching him in place, and his momentum sent him pitching forwards in freefall. This time, Fedya surged ahead and caught him before he could hit the ground.

“Are you alright?” he said, holding him by the elbows.

Anatole looked down, embarrassed at his own weakness. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“We should rest. You look tired.”

“I can keep going.”

Fedya pulled away self-consciously, but his hands lingered. “Alright,” he said. “Just tell me if you need a break.”

And then they were off again.

Anatole was bewildered. He was dead weight, by all accounts, he knew that better than anyone, and Fedya had never been the sort of man to tolerate being slowed. There was no sentimentality in war; if something held you behind, you cut it out and left it to fend for itself. But this wasn’t the same man he had been deployed with. This Fedya cracked jokes when the Sun was beating down on them and helped Anatole clamber up hills when his legs went weak and lit campfires at night when Anatole complained of the cold. The softness wasn’t entirely new—Anatole had caught glimpses of it before, in the thoughtless, lazy moments after they slept together, when Fedya’s guard and inhibitions were down. Then, he had relished it, chased after it like an affection-crazed dog, always tantalizingly close but just out of reach.

But now.

Anatole smiled to himself. How sweet and unexpected it was.

Fedya loved him. Fedya _loved_ him. He had wanted that, hadn’t he? Back before Petersburg and the war had tangled his thoughts and emotions together into a confused, frightened mess. He had heard Fedya say those words aloud, and with every passing day in the woods he believed them a little more.

On and on they walked. Fedya navigated by watching the Sun during the day and the stars at night, stopping for rest only when necessary. The route from Borodino to Moscow was shrouded in wood, thicker and denser as it neared the Moskva. They hadn’t bothered to bring a tent, knowing its weight would only impede them, and luckily they hadn’t been caught in any rain. Apart from each other, they hadn’t seen a single soul since fleeing the camp. Boredom had set in quickly.

And when the boredom became too much, there was always chatter to fill the space in between:

“Why the fuck are my knees so sore?”

Fedya chuckled. “That does happen when you walk for more than an hour at a time.”

Anatole made a displeased sound in the back of his throat.

“It’s not much further till Moscow,” said Fedya. “Another day or two at most. We’re making good enough progress.”

It was a lie, but Anatole appreciated it all the same.

“I wonder how Lena’s holding up,” Fedya continued.

Hélène. Anatole’s heart gave a painful twinge. Had she already received notice of his disappearance? Was he dead, or missing in action, or presumed captured? Which of the above was worse?

“She and our parents must be at each other’s throats right about now,” he said.

Fedya laughed. “Not our Lena. She has a better poker face than mine.”

Anatole shook his head. “Not around them, she doesn’t. Mama’s always been horrible to her. I didn’t realize it for the longest time, but she is. Papa’s not much better, honestly. I used to think Lena had gotten off easy. I don’t think any of us did. Not really.”

Fedya was not laughing anymore.

“Such is the nature of families, I suppose,” Anatole concluded, with a forced sense of levity. “All miserable. All in their own way.”

“That’s a rather cynical outlook.”

Anatole smiled bitterly. “I gave idealism a shot. We all know how well that worked out.”

“What you gave a shot was hedonism.”

“Isn’t it easier not to care?”

“For you, perhaps.”

Anatole’s smile dropped without his permission. He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. “It was.”

“Don’t look so glum, Tolya. You don’t have to think about these things. It’s not so bad out here. Fine weather.”

“Company leaves something to be desired.”

Fedya bumped his shoulder playfully. “Watch your mouth.”

Samira gave an amused huff.

“I’ve always liked the woods,” he continued, turning his head to the sky. “When I was a boy, I used to go hunting on nice days like this. My mother would lend me her rifle and if I was lucky and kept quiet, I’d shoot a nice grouse or rabbit for dinner.”

Anatole nudged him in the side with his elbow. “More poaching than hunting, eh?”

“It’s closer to hunting than you’ll’ve ever gotten.”

“Au contraire, _monsieur_. My father used to take me and my brother duck hunting every summer at the dacha.”

“‘The dacha’,” said Fedya. He exhaled in amusement, the sort of way he would to a joke whose punchline he already knew. “Of course.”

“You would’ve loved it. Green as heaven. There was a lake a mile off the back porch where we’d go swimming when it was warm. Lena shoved me in once. I was so mad at her I threw mud on her dress when we went back for dinner. And there was a tree, this great big weeping willow right on the bank, and the three of us used to climb it and jump into the water. Lito was always terrified of that. Said he was scared his dæmon would settle as a fish and he’d be stuck in the lake forever.”

“Off on a tangent, are we?” said Fedya.

Anatole paused, realizing that his thoughts had wandered, and flushed. “Ah. Right.”

“I’m only teasing. Go on.”

“Well, Papa thought it would instill some discipline or masculinity or whatever in us to properly hold a rifle in our hands. I suppose it was the sort of thing his father taught him. He brought me and Lito out one morning to hunt foxes. I was about ten, I think. The rifle was too heavy for me, so Papa ended up carrying it, but Lito still had his.” Anatole laughed and shook his head. “He took it so seriously. He took everything seriously.”

Fedya scoffed. “And you’re sure this is a blood relation?”

“I’ve wondered that myself at times. We both thought it was a game, Linoshka and I. She thought it would be good fun to become a fox.”

“It was fun at first,” Danali said sullenly. “I miss being able to shift.”

Anatole smiled and stroked her head. “I like you better like this.” Then, returning to his story, he continued, “We’d been walking for an hour or so at that point, and we’d strayed off the path a bit, and we hadn’t seen a proper fox yet, and Linoshka was chasing a mouse in the thicket. Lito turned the rifle on her. Didn’t realize she was a dæmon, not a wild animal.”

Fedya and Samira gave each other a brief sideways glance.

“I don’t think he would’ve hit her. He was always a lousy shot. Danali saw the rifle and became a sparrow and flew away before he fired. Papa had already shouted for him not to shoot.” The corner of his mouth jerked into a vacant smile. “He hit a tree instead. But I’ve never seen Papa so scared as he was then. It was like Lito’d held the damn gun to my head. Lito started crying when he realized what he’d almost done. And then Papa…”

Anatole’s voice trailed off, his thoughts with it. He knew how the rest of it went. Vasily had gotten down on his knees and held him as he cried. Vasily had stroked his hair and kissed his forehead and said _don’t scare me like that, son_. Vasily had walked him home holding his hand all the way.

The same father who had sent him off to die. How was it possible for that kindness and cruelty to exist in the same person? Remembering it hurt, bone-deep and distantly sweet at the same time. Saying it out loud was impossible.

“Ducks hardly count,” Fedya offered, sensing Anatole’s unease. “No sport at all in duck hunting.”

Anatole laughed. “Of course you’d say that. You think hunting is crouching in a bush and taking potshots at—”

Branches cracking. Anatole froze like a deer in the sights of a pistol and latched onto Fedya’s sleeve. Soldiers, he thought. French, Russian, it didn’t matter—they were no less dead either way if they were caught, and they would be, now that they had been seen, and they would be shot as deserters or the enemy and—

These were not soldiers.

Two travelers, a man and a woman, scruffily-dressed and wild-eyed. The man’s hair was the same white-blond as Anatole’s, the woman’s dark red, though their faces were too distant to properly make out. They carried rucksacks on their backs. In the woman’s arms was a black leather box shaped like an accordion case. With Anatole and Fedya in their sights, the two of them stood petrified in terror. The man pulled the woman behind him, holding her wrist, and she clung to his waistcoat. Anatole realized, a heartbeat later, why.

“Put down your gun,” he said to Fedya.

Fedya held steady. His eyes were narrowed, hard, as if sizing up an enemy combatant, his hands tight around the pistol he had drawn. “Why?”

“Can’t you see? They’re frightened of us.”

With obvious reluctance, Fedya lowered his pistol. But he didn’t holster it.

Anatole raised his hands, palms open, a calm smile on his face. “Fine weather we’re having, eh?” he called across the clearing.

The woman grabbed the man’s arm, startled, but less so than before. Her dæmon was a red squirrel who had wound himself around her neck. The man’s, a dull-looking sparrow. There was something oddly familiar about them, though what exactly, he couldn’t say.

“What are you doing?” hissed Fedya.

“There are troops marching in from the west,” Anatole continued. “Take care when you get out of the woods. Stick close to the river and you ought to avoid them. Swift travels, comrades.”

Fedya holstered the pistol. The lines of his face tightened in weariness, or maybe even guilt.

The man nodded. The woman tugged at his wrist, pulling him along behind her, and the two of them took off into the thicket. A moment later they were gone. If he blinked or looked away for a moment, they may just as well have never been there at all.

“Who do you suppose they were?” asked Anatole.

Fedya shrugged. His eyes still hadn’t left the clearing. “Dunno. Doesn’t matter.” He touched Anatole’s shoulder. “We have to keep moving.”

Night fell, darkness with it. They stopped by a river—the Moskva, Fedya informed him—to set up camp. Dinner was the last of their rations. Fedya lit a small fire where the grass was sparse, and the two of them ate in silence as they watched its flickering glow, and in its warmth, they were half melting in the front and their backs were frozen from the wind. Anatole shifted as the cold nipped at the nape of his neck and felt a strange heaviness in a pocket he didn’t remember putting anything in. Intrigued, he reached after it.

Ah. This.

The necklace Andrei had given him. Anatole swallowed down the knot of guilt that rose in his throat. A last request from a dead man. A man he had left to die at the hands of another.

He held the chain taut between his hands and ran one thumb over the tarnished silver on the icon. A saint’s figure, dulled with age until its face was all but blotted out. The saint’s dæmon must have been blotted out too.

Anatole’s mouth twitched into a grimace. The metaphor was too pointed and painful to ignore, despite his best efforts.

“What is that?” asked Fedya.

Anatole looked up, then back to the icon. “Bolkonsky asked me to return it to his sister. I thought I should keep it safe.”

“Until what?”

“They were friends, weren’t they, Bolkonsky and Pierre?”

Reluctance strained Fedya’s voice. “Anatole—”

“We _are_ planning to extort him,” Anatole said rather pointedly. “I say this might just cancel out, morally speaking. And perhaps he’ll be able to get it back to Princess Mary.”

Fedya didn’t look entirely pleased with this, but he didn’t protest either. Satisfied, Anatole dropped the chain and the icon in his pocket, the same place he kept the snow leopard figurine.

“There,” he said to little Dahanian. “You two can keep each other company.”

A shadow crossed Fedya’s face. “Anatole,” he said, “he was at peace after you left. You have to understand, I never meant to hurt or frighten you, but—”

“I saw a boy stabbed to death in battle,” Anatole said abruptly, with resentment he hadn’t realized he was still carrying. “That haunts me less than what you did to Bolkonsky.”

“It was the merciful thing to do. More merciful than letting him suffer.”

“We could have helped him.”

“No,” Fedya said gently. “We couldn’t have.”

“But—”

“He would never have had his dæmon again. That’s not a life worth living. It wouldn’t have been right to let him suffer any longer.”

Anatole fell silent. He felt Danali’s heartbeat against his cheek from where she had curled herself around his neck, steady and constant as his own. What would life be like, he wondered, without that constancy? Could he bear to live without her, or her without him? Was that truly not a life worth living?

“It was over quickly,” Fedya added. “He didn’t feel any pain. I made sure of it.”

Anatole’s hand went, on instinct, or perhaps out of the need to be comforted, back to his pocket. Through the thin fabric of his coat he felt the outline of little Dahanian, the smooth curve of the icon. Reminders, the both of them. Promises he had yet to fulfill. He thought of Hélène and Mary. Andrei, lying dead in the attic of a church in a forgotten town somewhere far away.

He didn’t understand how death could have been merciful. But then again, there were many things he still didn’t understand, and perhaps not all of them were entirely wrong.

“We won’t talk about it,” he said.

Fedya nodded. “Alright.”

It was at that moment that Anatole’s stomach gave a conspicuous growl. Fedya’s eyebrows shot up. The tension in the air was gone in an instant.

“Still hungry?” he said.

“To tell you the truth, a little.”

“Well, the rations are gone now.”

“Pity, that.”

“Perhaps I ought to get back into practice,” Fedya quipped, and took out his pistol to polish on the hem of his jacket. “I still remember how to skin a rabbit.”

Anatole wrinkled his nose. “I’d sooner starve than eat a mangy wild rabbit.”

“You might do just that, picky little thing that you are.”

Anatole scoffed in mock-offense and kicked at the ground.

“You can eat whatever you’d like in Moscow,” Fedya said, now with deliberate gentleness. “But you do have to get there first. And you can’t do that if you’ve starved to death.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Anatole. “We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?”

Fedya looked as if he had nothing to say in disagreement. He holstered his pistol at his hip, and Samira laid her head in his lap with a tired huff. “We’ll just rest for the night, then. See if we can forage for something tomorrow morning.”

Anatole scrubbed his hands together. To his own disgust, they were calloused and filthy. “What a state I’m in. Reduced to foraging. Like some common peasant.”

“It’s good enough work.”

“I’m not you, Fedya. I’m not cut out for that sort of life. I was bred for the ballroom, not the farmyard.”

“You?” said Fedya, vaguely offended. “Don’t flatter yourself. You were bred for the club and seducing young noblewomen.”

“Hardly mutually exclusive.”

“A philosophy you seem to have brought with you on deployment,” Fedya said drily.

Anatole straightened his back, thrown for a moment. “I beg your pardon.”

Fedya flushed scarlet. He had misspoken. A rare sight, that. And a delightful one.

Anatole leaned forwards and nodded to edge him on. “You thought what?”

“You had other affairs,” Fedya said haltingly. “You did, didn’t you? With the other men?”

There followed a beat as his words sank in. Anatole threw his head back and laughed. He could have been insulted, morbidly so, and it was the sort of thing he would’ve taken grave offense to six months ago. But now it only struck him as patently ridiculous.

Jealousy was easier to bear, somehow, when it wasn’t purely out of lust.

Fedya’s face went even redder. Anatole reached for the hem of his sleeve, fraying now.

“Fyedka, _mon chéri_ ,” he said as he brought Fedya’s hand to his lips, “if you think I’d hop into bed with some oaf in a uniform who hasn’t had a wash in months, then you’re stark raving mad.”

Fedya laughed and squeezed his hand. “That was stupid of me.”

“It was.”

At that, Fedya finally cracked a smile.

“Put it out of mind,” Anatole continued. “We won’t think of it anymore. We’re leaving it all behind us, wherever we go. Everything.”

“You must be devastated,” said Fedya, still blushing. “To leave the nobility behind.”

Anatole smiled, wry and not entirely sincere, and turned his head upwards. At this hour the sky was nearing pitch-black, though a stripe along the horizon still stubbornly clung to blue. “Well, there’s a lot I won’t miss,” he said.

“Oh?”

“My family, for one.”

Fedya gave a dry laugh. “That’d be the one thing I’d miss.”

Anatole paused for a moment. There was something in Fedya’s tone that felt familiar, somehow. The sort of hurt he recognized in himself.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

“About what?”

“Your family. You never speak of them. Sometimes I wonder if you came into existence at a poker table already in uniform.”

There followed a long stretch of nothing. Anatole realized his joke had fallen flat. A heavy sigh rattled Fedya’s breath. In an instant, he had aged a thousand years.

“It’s a sad story, to tell you the truth.”

“Were you horrid to each other as well?”

“Oh, no,” said Fedya. “Quite the opposite. We loved each other. We loved each other very dearly. But it didn’t last.”

Anatole listened in silence, attentive for perhaps the first time in his life, as Fedya’s story unraveled, quiet as the curling plumes of smoke that still rose from the fire in soft billows.

Fedya was born around 1782 in Kushva, a small village nestled in the foothills of the Ural Mountains, where the land was hard and the people were harder still. Life was harsh and unsure, but a fatherless boy couldn’t complain. And Maria Dolokhova made do in any way she could.

When Fedya was ten, a regiment of Imperial soldiers passed through Kushva—it didn’t matter to or from where—to rest and resupply before returning to their base. Maria invited an officer to rent their spare bedroom. A tall handsome fellow, with hazel eyes and an easy smile. He taught Fedya how to play cards and charmed Maria with his kind words. And then he was gone, just as soon as he had arrived.

As time passed, Maria’s dresses grew tight, and she stopped doing as many of the chores around the farm.

Darya was born in the early days of spring with a bent spine and a weak heart. The midwife hadn’t expected her to live through the night.

In true Dolokhov fashion, she had done just that.

Darya grew like a stubborn little sprout. Her hair was dark and curly, like his, but her eyes were hazel, not his green, and not like their mother’s either. Fedya loved her more than anything in the world. A frail heart and a hunched back made for a poor farmhand, but Darya had a sweet soul and a wicked sense of humor. Fedya showed her how to play cards the way the soldier had. On the long walks they took together after the day’s work was through, he taught her the names of plants and animals and constellations.

When Fedya was twelve, he woke up one morning and was shocked to discover that Samira had become a wolf and could become nothing else.

“Like your father,” Maria told him, with a strange air of sadness about her. “Only you’re not a lone wolf. You always need to stay with your pack.”

Fedya, at the time, didn’t understand her. Nor did little Darya, whose dæmon was still too excitable to stay in one form for more than ten minutes at a time.

“What do you think my Ammon will settle as?” she used to ask him every night before she went to sleep.

And Fedya would smile and say a spider or a rat or whatever else he could come up with to tease her. Darya would shriek with laughter and hold Ammon close and say that he was too beautiful to become a spider.

For a time, things were content.

Six summers passed. Then came the bad harvest, the creditors knocking at the door, the long cold winter and the fireplace struggling for warmth against not enough coal and too much wind. Disease crept in like an unwelcome guest. Fedya was sick and better again before the week was out. He was the lucky one.

First came the coughing, then the fevers, then the delirium. Finally the seizures.

Darya was gone before her dæmon settled. Their mother followed not even a month later.

And then Fedya was on his own.

“I never left Kushva for glory or fame or money,” he said, his voice lowered to almost a whisper. “There were too many memories of them. I had to get away. So I enlisted in the Army, and I reinvented myself, and I swore that I would never allow myself to feel that kind of sadness again. Even if it meant feeling nothing at all.”

Anatole was quiet. He pulled Fedya closer. “I’m so sorry, _dorogoj_ ,” he said softly.

Fedya’s hand delicately traced Anatole’s hairline. Tears still shone in his eyes, but he was smiling now. “I’ve never told anyone that before. Not even Lena. I used to think I was dead inside. I never thought I’d love anyone again. And then I met you two.”

Anatole felt as if he had been bayoneted through the heart. But it was the good sort of sting, tenderness rather than sadness, and he smiled and pressed a kiss to Fedya’s palm, like doing a devotion to an icon.

“Love you,” he whispered.

Fedya’s breath caught in his throat. Then, with only a moment’s hesitation, he took Anatole’s face in his hands and kissed his lips and his cheeks and his forehead and his eyelids and his nose all without stopping or pausing in between. Anatole gasped in surprise as Fedya put his arms around his waist and pulled him in close. Too close. They went tumbling to the ground together, hopelessly intertwined, and broke apart laughing.

Fedya reached up to stroke Anatole’s hair back. “I love you too,” he said. “Christ almighty, _luchik_ , I love you so much.”

Anatole leaned down and kissed him again. With another sharp tug, Fedya pulled him down until their chests were flush, and Anatole sighed contentedly and tucked his head into the crook of Fedya’s neck.

“You’re too muscly,” he said.

Fedya chuckled. “At least I’m not as bony as you.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” said Anatole, “or I might’ve taken grave offense to that.”

“You love me,” Fedya repeated in wonder.

“I’m surprised you didn’t realize sooner. God knows subtlety has never been my forte.”

“I never thought we could have this.” He traced Anatole’s cheek with his fingers, looking for all the world as if he had never seen Anatole’s face before in his life. “I…God, I’ve wanted this, I don’t even know how long. I think you’ve been driving me mad since Poland.”

Poland. Christ. Three years, and all this time, he had been walking with his hands over his eyes and ears.

“You ought to have told me, idiot.”

“Anatole—”

“I’ve wanted more from you than what we had. I’ve always wanted more from you, and you never gave it to me.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“What?”

“ _This_.”

“Well, why not?”

“I...I’m not like you,” he said quietly. “I was ashamed. I suppose I still am, in many ways. And I don’t think you’ve ever felt an ounce of shame in your life. I was always taught that this was wrong. God only meant for this to be shared between a woman and a man.”

Of course. Anatole had never paid attention in church, through the droning sermons and prayers or Aline’s lectures and instructions, but he had known enough. Enough to have the sense to keep out of the prying eyes of society what was meant to be secret, what was taboo and forbidden, however natural it seemed. He hadn’t understood it, and because he hadn’t understood it, he had never given it a minute of thought either which way. As for Fedya, well, he was the sort of man who would attend services every week and go home and believe every word of it and say his prayers every night before he went to bed. Of course he would be ashamed. Of course he would feel fear for this God he had never met, this God who had taken away his mother and his sister all at once, that something that brought him pleasure would also sting with the taste of guilt.

“Look at me,” Anatole said firmly. He reached over and clasped their hands together. Fedya’s palm was broad and callused and scarred against his, but beneath it all was warmth. “If there is a God, and if he is as kind and loving as you say he is, he wouldn’t begrudge you this. Not after everything you’ve gone through.”

The lines of Fedya’s face softened. “That might just be the cleverest thing you’ve ever said.”

Anatole chuckled. “The bar was low.”

By now, the fire had all but burnt out. Fedya kicked dirt over the cinders until their glow died out and spread a blanket over the ground. The two of them settled down with their rucksacks as pillows and huddled close for warmth. Danali crawled into Fedya’s pocket, where it must have been warmer. Fedya’s eyes widened in surprise.

“It’s alright,” Anatole said. “You can touch her if you’d like.”

“I’m frightened I’ll hurt her.”

“You won’t.”

With evident hesitation, Fedya stroked the fur between Danali’s ears. Anatole tensed on instinct, remembering Pierre’s hands and the sickening feeling of wrongness and vulnerability.

But this wasn’t that. This was vulnerability, certainly, but the other sort, the willing sort, and the calm and gratitude it stirred up in him brought tears to his eyes. Love, steady and forceful as the ocean waves. Trust. Yes, thought Anatole, he trusted Fedya. Trusted him enough to let him hold his soul in his hands, loved him enough that it felt right.

Warm and drunk on it, Anatole’s mind wandered to places it had never gone before. He pictured himself waking up next to Fedya on lazy mornings, affectionately bickering the way husbands and wives did, growing old together, all in this same humming bliss that he never wanted to end. If he could have stayed here forever, he would have done it in a heartbeat.

“Where do you suppose we’d go?” he asked idly.

“Hm?”

“After this. Once we have Lena. Once we’ve run off. We can’t go back to Russia now. Not if we don’t want to be shot as traitors.”

“I suppose we could go anywhere, really. Prague. Berlin. Madrid. We could go to America, if you’d really like.”

Anatole felt Danali’s little body vibrating with laughter through the fabric of Fedya’s jacket. “I’ve always liked the idea of London.”

“Lena hates English. And I hate the cold.”

“We live in _Russia_.”

“The food in England is disgusting,” said Fedya. “You’re picky enough as is. You’d waste away to nothing.”

“That’s a fair enough point,” Anatole conceded.

“We ought to go to Hungary,” Fedya said. “Lots of tokay for Lena.”

“Could you imagine Budapest?” said Anatole. He latched onto it without knowing why, and savored the taste and feel of the word in his mouth. “Wouldn’t that be a grand little adventure?”

Fedya’s smile wrinkled the corners of his eyes.

“I can see it already. We’ll find ourselves a flat with a view of the Danube and we’ll sleep in every morning and get fat on Hungarian pastries and patronize the best restaurants and clubs in town. We’ll have to learn Hungarian, of course, but I’m sure I’ll pick it up in no time at all and translate for you two cretins. And there won’t be any war to fight in or anyone to bother us, and we’ll have all the tokay we want to drink, and it’ll be perfect.”

“Of course,” said Fedya, laughter in his eyes. He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to Anatole’s forehead. “So long as we’re all together.”

Anatole laid his head on Fedya’s chest, their hands clasped together, their warmth seeping into each other’s bones, and closed his eyes. Peace.

A few minutes later, or perhaps it was hours, he was startled out of his sleep when Fedya sat upright suddenly and sent him tumbling to the ground. Flushed and irritated, he ran a hand through his hair to fix it, then one down his face.

“For Christ’s sake, Fedya,” he began.

“Tolya,” said Fedya, pointing towards the edge of the clearing, “can you see that too?”

Anatole followed Fedya’s finger. Not far in the distance, they saw plumes of campfire smoke and the gleam of torches lighting the sky. Though whether it was the French or the Russians, neither could say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The couple Anatole and Fedya see are 300% Lauren Zakrin and Josh Canfield in our heads


	35. Arrivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre and Natasha experience some minor calamities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive us for getting sentimental, but we made this doc on February 3rd of 2018 (you can thank @thewhiskerydragon for realizing this and being a massively sentimental dork) but we're starting to head into the endgame here (albeit a very drawn out endgame) and we're both kind of sad about it, and we just wanted to say thank you for supporting our work for as long as we've been posting it. It means the whole wide world to us.

The truth of the matter, Pierre thought to himself, was that all this trouble had started well before today, and had probably been festering for a good number of years, and he had been too stupid and wallowing and self-absorbed in his own miserable little world until now to properly realize it.

You could argue that his first mistake in this whole affair had been Drushya, which felt horrible to say but seemed a fine enough explanation, until you remembered the only reason Drushya had happened at all was because Pierre had been smitten and weak and stupid, and Natasha had been sweet and lovely and utterly perfect. Or perhaps it went even further back, and he had only fallen for Natasha because Hélène had made him so miserable, and she had only made him miserable because he had married her, which he had only done because Vasily Kuragin had all but bullied him into it. Back and back it went, until it all seemed like one long chain of mistakes, strung after the other.

Maybe his first mistake had been being born in the first place.

In any case, however long this disaster had been building, he had been digging his own grave with gusto all the while and somehow along the way had managed to pull Natasha in with him. And all for what? To be imprisoned? Exiled? Executed?

_Executed?_

Pierre blinked, startling himself out of his own train of thought. The lenses of his spectacles were filthy with dust. Perhaps the inside of his head was too. _Executed_. No, he told himself. They wouldn’t be executed, not by any stretch of the imagination. That sort of thing didn’t happen. Certainly not to a wealthy aristocrat and his pregnant wife.

What would happen—and it was debatable how much less unpleasant this was—was they would be interrogated further, pried apart for every detail of their personal lives, every sin and every infraction, then stripped of their titles and shipped off to Siberia, and God only knew what would become of them there.

Pierre couldn’t bear to think of it now. The future seemed bleak enough as it was. But more importantly, and more immediately, if it came to a house search, there was no doubt in his mind that it would end in their arrest.

So the natural conclusion, of course, was to get rid of any possible evidence against them.

Natasha and Pierre didn’t speak as they worked. It was better this way, Pierre decided. Between the two of them, they had slept probably five hours the night before, and had they spoken, they were just as likely as not to break into an argument, or Pierre’s nerves would fray down to the quick and he would dissolve into tears, and he still had yet to decide which of the two would be more awful.

Surely there were better ways to spend house arrest than this.

Around them, or more precisely, flooding the whole room were stacks of books and bound papers sorted by varying degrees of blasphemy. Natasha and Pierre had been rifling through them for the better part of the past few hours. They had made themselves tea at some point in the process, but the cups lay forgotten and cold on the windowsill.

He had offered to do this on his own. And he really should have—the doctor had ordered Natasha to rest as much as possible, especially with the additional stress they were under. But she wouldn’t stand for it.

“We should do this together,” she had said, rather curtly. “I don’t want you to miss anything important.”

The more he tried to help, it seemed, the less he managed to. A hand on the back earned him a furrowed brow. A too-heavy book lifted from her hands only provoked as a sharp huff. Pierre felt anxiety creeping in like an unwelcome guest, making his heart stutter in his chest.

He was useless. Truly, it was all he ever had been.

Natasha grunted as she reached up on her tiptoes after a massive leather-bound tome, one of the last left on the bookshelves. Frowning, Pierre reached over easily and grabbed it for her.

“You shouldn’t be doing any heavy lifting,” he said.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Pierre, I’m _fine_ ,” she snapped. Adrastos fluffed out his wings indignantly. “Stop fussing.”

“I just wanted to help.”

“Well, _don’t_.”

Pierre looked down at the book in his hands. _Studies in Metaphysics & Alethiometry_. The green leather felt warm and worn, like shaking hands with an old friend. It was one of his oldest books, marked up with his notes and his father’s before him. This one he had salvaged from Kirill’s archives. A banned book, but it had been left to him all the same, and there were certain things too precious not to take hold of, or at least he had thought so back when he was younger and bolder. Before sentimentality could set in, he laid it aside atop a pile of Grumman texts and stepped back to admire their handiwork.

“That’s the last of them,” he said.

With a heavy sigh, weary from standing on her feet too long, Natasha closed her eyes and sank back into an armchair, one hand on her swollen stomach.

Pierre fiddled aimlessly with the buttons of his waistcoat. “Do you want another cup of tea, dear?”

“No,” Natasha said, a little brusquely. “We should figure out what to do with these first.”

Pierre turned back to the books. Dusty and dog-eared, leather-bound, bundles of papers held together by fraying spines and glue, some wide as his palm, others narrow as the tip of his finger. The novels and encyclopedias and historical texts that made up most of the library could stay, once the shelves had been dusted. The question stood as to whether anything else compromising could be found in the house.

Pierre’s heart hung heavy as he swept his eyes across the room and its empty shelves. Endless hours of reading at his desk by candlelight, poring over dissertations maps and illuminations on his own or with Natasha. All the remaining scraps and memories he had of the father he had never really known.

But they had to go.

“We’ll burn them,” he said.

Natasha turned her head. “What?”

“We’ll throw them in the fireplace. All of them.”

Her eyes darted back and forth between him and the stacks of books. She hadn’t heard him properly yet. Didn’t want to either. “I beg your pardon.”

“Only this stack. The rest we’ll keep.”

“Have you lost your senses?”

“On the contrary, Tasha,” he said wearily, “I think I’ve only just come to them.”

Adrastos seemed to swell in size at Natasha’s shoulder, as she rounded on him with fury and disbelief in her eyes. “You can’t. This is your life’s work. I know what it means to you. I know how much you’ve invested in this. This is your _passion_. We can’t throw that all away.”

“I can,” Pierre said. “All it’s ever brought me is trouble. I don’t care about it anymore.”

“I do. And I _know_ you do too.”

“My father bequeathed them to me. If anyone has a right to burn the damn things, it’s me.”

“Then you’ll be no better than the Tsar,” she said. “Terrified of what people will think of you, what this could _mean_ —”

“Of course I’m terrified,” he snapped. “They could throw us in prison or deport us to Siberia, or God knows what, and—”

“We’ll hide them until all of this is over. They won’t find them.”

“And what if they do? What’ll happen to us? We have to be responsible now. We have a child on the way, for God’s sake. We can’t put him at risk over this. I won’t allow it.”

“ _Allow_ it?” Natasha seethed. “He’s my child too.”

“You’re sure as hell not acting like it.”

“How dare you,” she spat. “You have no right to say that.”

Natasha moved for the desk and Pierre followed. As he did, Khione shifted to the side, and her rear end swerved into a stack of books and sent it tumbling to the ground in a cloud of dust and loose papers.

“For Christ’s sake, be _careful_ , Khione!” Natasha exploded.

Khione jumped at the sound of Natasha’s voice, startled at first, and then hurt. Guilt surged through Pierre. Anger countered it, then the sickening lurch of fear. Was this hatred in Natasha’s eyes? Disgust? Pity, for an old clumsy fool who irked her? Had nothing really changed, and was he still the same infuriating senseless oaf he had been before? Pierre shrank in on himself and bristled at the same time, unable to decide whether he wanted to fight back or drop to his knees and apologize.

“Don’t speak to her like that,” he said finally.

“Then don’t speak to me like I’m a child,” Natasha snapped. “I’m your _wife_. You’re supposed to _trust_ me.”

Pierre had just opened his mouth to retort when from down the hall they heard three sharp impatient knocks at the door.

The air in the room froze at once. Khione made a soft alarmed sound, like a bark, but not quite as forceful. Pierre felt as though his stomach had dropped through the floorboards.

Natasha looked up suddenly with wide dark eyes. “Shit,” she hissed.

Not this. Not already.

“We can’t let them in,” he said.

“We can’t just ignore it.”

“But they’ll _see_ —”

He gestured manically around them to the empty shelves, the books piled across the floor, the drawn curtains. They couldn’t have looked more suspicious if they tried.

“And if we don’t answer?” Natasha said, her voice shaking in fear. “What’ll they think? That we’ve run? That we have something to hide?”

The knocking continued with growing insistence. Pierre pressed his face into his hands, wishing he could blot out the noise. “Christ almighty.”

“I’ll lock the study,” Natasha said, and pushed him towards the hallway. “You go get the door before they break it down. And we’ll have to pray they don’t ask to search the house.”

Pierre wiped his sweat-slick palms on his trousers as he made his way down the corridor. Behind him, he heard Natasha locking the door and whispering nervously to Adrastos.

The front hall was well-lit at this hour, not for the lamps, which had been left off today, but for the sunlight streaming in through the transom window. Pierre squinted at the sudden brightness—in the gloom of the study he hadn’t realized it was still daytime at all.

Still plenty of time, then, for an interrogation, or whatever the hell it was he was answering to.

Pierre pushed the door open. When he had, he wished he had taken off running in the opposite direction. It wasn’t Speransky. No, somehow, this was worse.

On the porch, dressed in grey wool skirt and a blouse, carpetbag hitched under one arm, a silver-spotted leopard at her side, stood the familiar figure of Princess Hélène Kuragina.

“ _Bonsoir_ , Count Bezukhov,” she said flatly.

Pierre’s jaw swung open. Instead of words, as he had hoped, all that came out was an undignified choking sound.

“Hélène?” he said finally.

Hélène pushed past him and Khione, set her luggage against the wall, and hung her shawl on the coat rack. “Sorry to barge in unannounced,” she said, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “I had to leave in a bit of a hurry.”

Natasha appeared further down the hallway and joined them in the foyer. Her hand came to a rest at the small of Pierre’s back. When she saw Hélène, her face grew pale. “Countess?” she said.

“I’m not a countess anymore,” Hélène said stiffly.

Natasha blushed and averted her eyes.

“What are you doing here, Hélène?” Pierre snapped, having recovered some meager amount of grace.

Hélène’s face was unnervingly placid. “I’m here to wait for my brother and Captain Dolokhov.”

Pierre stopped dead. _Oh, God_ , he thought. _She’s finally lost it_.

Natasha caught Pierre’s eye with a concerned look. Her hand drifted to Adrastos to stroke his tail feathers. “Is everything quite alright, Princess?” she asked.

“Of course.”

Natasha hesitated. “Might I offer you something warm to drink?” she said quietly. “Tea?”

“That would be lovely, Countess. A dash of milk and one lump of sugar, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Natasha nodded in a strange, stilted way and led them down the hall to the kitchen, where Pierre poured out the samovar himself and pulled out a chair for Natasha. The three of them sat in silence as they waited for the tea to cool. Beneath the table, Dahanian’s tail flicked restlessly across the floor. Pierre’s face grew hot as he noticed the way Hélène’s eyes lingered on Natasha for longer than was appropriate—her stomach, her breasts, the golden band on her finger.

“Congratulations,” she said vaguely, and then failed to elaborate.

Natasha smiled with restraint. She still hadn’t touched her tea. “Thank you.”

Pierre fidgeted in his seat. “Hélène,” he began, “I understand how difficult this must be for you, but…”

Pierre’s voice died off in his throat as Hélène fixed him with a stern glare. “Why would it be difficult for me, Pyotr Kirillovich?”

Pierre flinched at the coldness with which she said his name. How little she had changed. More open in her hatred of him now, he supposed. Or maybe he was only more aware of it.

“As I said, I made plans to meet my brother in Moscow, which is why I’m waiting here,” she continued.

There followed a sickening silence.

“He’s dead, Hélène,” said Pierre, once it had grown too awful to bear. “The battle at Borodino was a massacre. Everyone’s heard by now.”

Hélène sat back in her seat. A dark shadow crossed her face. Dahanian’s tail stopped moving. “He isn’t dead.”

Natasha laid a hand on Pierre’s arm before he could say anything else. “How about some blini?” she said to Hélène. “You must be hungry from the long ride.”

“No, thank you,” said Hélène. “If you’ll excuse me, I really ought to go freshen up. The train was quite stuffy. And if I stay any longer, I’m afraid I might upset your husband.”

And with that, she rose to her feet, pushed her chair in, and started off down the gas-lit hall to the washroom. Dahanian followed her, a silver shadow. The door slammed shut, and the bang that followed rattled the house down to its foundation.

“She’s gone mad,” Pierre murmured, the teacup still hot in his hands. “We’re housing a madwoman.”

Natasha kept her voice low. “Don’t be cruel. The poor thing has just lost her brother. Perhaps this is how she’s grieving.”

“We should send for the doctor.”

“Let her rest. She’s had a long journey.” Natasha frowned and looked back down at the table. “We can’t ask her to leave.”

Pierre frowned. “Of course we can.”

“She’s been through a terrible ordeal and the last thing she needs right now is—”

“Tasha, darling, you can’t be serious.”

“Of course I am. What kind of people would we be if we turned her away?”

“ _Sane_ ones. _Reasonable_ ones. You know what she’s done to my reputation. What she did to you.”

Natasha sighed, not in disagreement, and set her teacup aside. “How would you feel if she wandered outside and got hurt?”

Not as badly as Natasha would have, evidently.

“Marya keeps a guest room, doesn’t she?” he offered.

“ _Pierre_.”

Pierre sat back in his seat. His collar had suddenly grown too tight. His breathing, with it, had grown shallow. Even as he ripped the buttons open it still felt as if there was a hand at his throat, not pressing yet but threatening.

“I don’t like this,” he said.

“I know, love. But can you be brave for me?”

Pierre forced down a gulp of air. There was no one in the world who could make him feel like an utter clown as easily as Hélène could, or take quite as much pleasure in doing so. If this was his punishment for that awful night in the study, well, it was justice cruelly-exacted.

“Alright,” he said finally.

Natasha gave his hand a squeeze. “I’ll try to keep her away from you.”

Pierre let out a halting breath. His heart began to slow. He hadn’t realized just how hard it had been beating until it no longer was. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry for shouting at you,” she said, addressing Khione, and regarded her as she would an old dear friend. “That was cruel of me. I shouldn’t have done that.” She turned to Pierre and continued, “And I’m sorry for losing my temper. I’ve been so worried and I haven’t been sleeping right but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Pierre swelled with tenderness. Her heart was too big for its own good. Time and suffering could try to make her a cynic and all Natasha could do in response was care. There was something to be admired in that, even if he had hated it in himself once.

“Do you really want to keep the books?” he said.

“I think it’d be the right thing to do.”

“But can you understand why I think the way I do?”

Natasha pressed her lips into a grim line. Her voice sounded a little heartbroken. Pierre would have rather died than hear her sound heartbroken again. “Yes.”

“If they’re found, we won’t be safe. It would be better to get rid of them.”

Hesitance strained her voice. “And I agree, but—”

“But we can’t light a fire in midsummer. And not with her here. It’ll be too noticeable.”

Natasha’s head shot up. Her eyes were wide and uncertain.

“There are a few loose floorboards in the corner of the second-floor drawing room,” he continued. “Anatole…when he lived here, I mean, he used to steal the tokay and hide it there. He thought I didn’t know about it. We can stow them away in the crawlspace until we decide what to do with them.”

Relief washed over Natasha’s face. “Thank you,” she whispered, rubbing her thumb along his wedding ring. “Thank you.”

Pierre bent to kiss her knuckles. He felt Adrastos’s feathers brushing against the frames of his spectacles. “We’re a family. I want us to make these decisions as equals.”

Natasha’s eyes flickered towards the hallway. “And if they ask questions about her?”

“They haven’t exactly forbidden us from welcoming guests,” Pierre said. He added drily, “What could be more Christian and charitable than opening one’s home to another in a time of need?”

Natasha squeezed his hand with a soft laugh. “Thank you, darling.”

Pierre reached over to touch Adrastos’s head. Before he could, Natasha brushed his fingers away.

“None of that now,” she murmured. Her eyes darted down the hall where Hélène had gone. “Not while she’s here.”

* * *

 

Anatole’s old room had hardly changed at all.

The desk at the window, the Persian rug at the foot of the dresser, the mirror above the bureau, tilted at a slightly off-kilter angle all hadn’t moved. Only the thin layer of dust on the desk gave indication that any time had passed since she had last been here. She caught a whiff of something tantalizingly familiar, like the leftover ghost of his cologne, but it was gone a moment later.

“Will you be comfortable here?” Natasha asked from the doorway.

Hélène swallowed thickly. She couldn’t find it in her to answer yet.

“We do have other rooms, if you’d prefer something else. There’s one down the hall with a fireplace and a—”

“I know,” Hélène said. Her voice was brittle and stiff. “I lived here for three years.”

She couldn’t see Natasha’s face, but the awkwardness was palpable in her silence.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha said finally.

Hélène set her carpetbag on the mattress. “It’s no matter. This will do just fine.”

For a few moments, neither woman said anything. Then shyly, almost abashedly, Natasha pulled out a pair of needles and a fraying ball of yarn. “Do you mind if I knit in here?” she asked. “Pierre’s in the sitting room and he always mutters to himself while he’s reading.”

Hélène sighed to herself. “No, of course not.”

Natasha eased herself into the chair by the bed. Well-along in her pregnancy now, it took her a good few seconds to manage. Her bird-dæmon fluttered to the side table. “You know,” she said, “you could always go to church with Marya tomorrow, if you’d like. I used to light candles every Sunday for Andrei and your brother. I like to think it makes them happy, wherever they are. To know that we’re still thinking of them.”

Hélène could have smiled. Innocent as ever. Moscow and war and Pierre couldn’t stamp that out of her. It was heartening to see that despite all that had happened, all that had changed, that much had remained the same.

“You don’t have to,” Natasha added hurriedly. Her eyes shone with fresh tears. “I understand it might be difficult. It was for me, at least. With Andrei.”

Hélène reached over and folded her hand around Natasha’s. The girl’s skin was warm to the touch, soft as an angel’s. Natasha’s other hand came to a rest atop Hélène’s. There was a sort of hesitant forgiveness in it, a truce, a sharing of grief.

“That’s very kind of you, Natasha,” she said.

Natasha smiled and went back to her knitting, a frizzy lump of wool that she had somehow bullied into a vaguely square shape. She held the needles with all the grace and comfort of holding a rifle, which was to say, none at all. “I was hoping to make something nice for when the baby arrives,” she said as she worried at a row of dropped stitches. “My mother taught me many years ago. It was never my strong suit.”

Hélène’s mind whirred with smoke, ticking away like the gears and cogs in a wristwatch. How long had it been? The Moscow soirée? February? And here they were now, in September. Seven months, was it?

“How exciting,” she said carefully. “It’ll be soon, won’t it?”

“God willing.” Natasha smiled again, even as the stitches slipped off and began to unravel under her clumsy ministrations. “The doctor says I’m to deliver in November. It’s come very quickly.”

 _Seven months, then_ , thought Hélène.

“Married in May, a child by November,” she said. “Things do seem to move very quickly for you, Countess.”

Natasha furrowed her brow and lowered her needles. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

Hélène hesitated for a moment, mulling over her words. “Only that it’s been so long since I saw you last. Remember the ball? You were such a lovely thing that night. Though I don’t imagine that dress will fit now.”

“No,” Natasha said uncertainly. “I doubt it would.”

“I know that my brother was very taken with you.”

“Princess—”

“And that was in February, wasn’t it?”

“Hélène,” she said gently, but with deliberate restraint, “I never—there was nothing between Anatole and I. I don’t know what would have given you the impression—”

“That’s good, then,” she said tightly. “Fortunate for you, I mean.”

Natasha’s cheeks flushed an indignant scarlet. The yarn spilled from her lap and pooled across the rug.

Before Hélène could say anything more to that, the door creaked open. Pierre hovered in the doorway. Khione hovered behind him. At the sight of it, Hélène’s face dropped into a scowl. Had he been listening in on them? She wouldn’t have put it past him.

A madwoman, he had called her. After everything that had happened, everything he had done, that took some nerve.

Pierre offered Natasha a smile as he stepped into the room. “If you don’t mind, darling, I’d just like a quick word with the Princess.”

“Alright,” Natasha said.

Pierre helped her up from her seat, bracing one hand on the small of her back. He bent to kiss her temple and then watched in dumb adoration as she more waddled than walked down the hall.

Once she was out of earshot, Hélène made her voice cold and said, “It didn’t take you long to find a replacement for me, did it?”

Pierre turned back to her, confused. “Pardon?”

“Tell me, Pierre, do you have a third lined up just in case? You know she had an affair while she was engaged, don’t you? You won’t even have to perjure yourself this time if things go badly.”

An indignant flush rose to Pierre’s face, and the fur along Khione’s back bristled like an animal cornered and prepared to strike. But Hélène felt no fear this time. She had almost forgotten how satisfying it was to provoke him. Some vindictive, resentful part of her had missed it. If it was cruel—which it certainly was; Hélène was many things but dishonest wasn’t one of them, not anymore—then it was his own fault for bringing it out in her.

“I did it to spare your honor,” he growled. “And I regret it every single day. It’s your fault, what’s become of us. You’ve ruined us.”

Hélène raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I can see that I have. Married to the girl you’ve always mooned over with a child on the way. I truly apologize, Pierre.”

“We’re under investigation because of you,” he said. “We’ve been placed under house arrest until God-knows-when. We’ve been interrogated and threatened and if we’re not lucky we may well be imprisoned. This is all your fault.”

Well, Hélène thought, this attitude was certainly a new development. Perhaps he had finally grown a spine in the time they had been apart. But if he had forgotten his place, she would be more than happy to remind him where things stood between them.

“It’s your own fault for bringing the girl into this,” she said. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? This is what you wanted all along. A pretty little wife who’s too naïve to see the sort of person you are. I pray for her sake the Magistrate sees who’s really at fault here. A gulag is no place to raise a child, after all.”

Pierre didn’t seem to know how to respond to that for a good few seconds. He never really did, Hélène mused. Stuttering and flushing had always been his preferred comebacks. Then Pierre exhaled deeply, through his nose, and said in voice that was clearly fighting to remain level, “Natasha is the only reason you’ve been allowed to stay in our home. As long as you are a guest here, all I ask is that you show her the respect she deserves.”

Hélène scoffed. “Natasha is a perfectly lovely girl. I’m sure she’ll make a far better wife for you than I ever was. I only hope that your method of settling disagreements with her is different than the one you favored with me.”

Pierre’s face became ashen. “I would never—”

“What? Threaten her? Lay your hands on her? Cast her out of your house? It’s nothing you haven’t done before.” Her voice hardened. “I hear she has two brothers _and_ a cousin. You’ll have your pick of loved ones to threaten, should it come to that.”

“How dare you,” he said.

“As easily as you dared to hurt me and my brother. I wonder what dear Natasha would think of that.”

Her threat had hit its mark, humbled him—she could see it in the way his cheeks flushed and his eyes dipped to the floor. As if an afterthought, he said, “You’ve broken the taboo as well. Neither of us are innocent in that respect.”

Hélène leaned forwards, bracing her elbows on her knees, and let a cruel smile curl her mouth. Dahanian was smiling too. “No, neither of us are innocent, I’ll give you that much. But make no mistake, you’re the guiltier of us two. Bad enough to touch someone else’s dæmon, but against their will? To hurt them? Don’t lie to yourself.”

Pierre still couldn’t look at her. “If you tell, then so will I,” he said finally.

Hélène laughed. There was something malicious in it, but more than that, something satisfied and maniacal. “Oh, Pierre,” she said. “What do I have to lose? I’m a madwoman now, remember?”


	36. An Edict from the Tsar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moscow falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be advised that this chapter contains a reference to medical gore, but it's quite brief and very minimal.

Early Saturday morning, Natasha woke to a dull pang in her lower back and a strange tightness in her stomach and a wet patch between her legs.

“Tasha,” Adrastos whispered urgently in her ear, “Tasha, what is that?”

Natasha blinked to clear her eyes. Pushing the skirt of her nightgown aside, she saw specks of blood dotting her thighs and the mattress cover. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Pierre,” she hissed, prodding him in the side. “Pierre, wake up.”

Pierre stirred with a sleepy groan. “Hm?”

Natasha prodded harder. “Pierre, you have to wake up.”

At last, Pierre rolled over. He rubbed at his eyes with one hand. The other fumbled over to the side table for his spectacles. “Tasha? Wha’s th’matter?”

Natasha pointed to the bloodied bedsheets and said nothing.

All the color drained from Pierre’s face in an instant. Khione poked her head over the footboard to have a look, and when she did, let out a startled cry.

“You—” Pierre stammered, “you d-don’t think you’re—?”

“I don’t know,” Natasha said.

It was too early. Drushya wasn’t meant to arrive until November, not for another two months. Hurriedly, frantically, they wrote a letter to Dr. Pasternak begging his help. The messenger, a boy Pierre had engaged by dangling fifty rubles out the window, returned an hour later, alone. Pasternak’s house was empty, he said, and the lights in the windows had been turned off. A note left on the door for visitors said he had taken off that morning for the countryside.

“What do you mean, he’s _left_?” Pierre howled.

“Haven’t you heard?” said the boy. “We’re under invasion. The Tsar’s issued an edict to abandon Moscow by nightfall.”

By now, Natasha’s odd pain had faded off. But it was replaced by looming, oppressive dread, and she wasn’t sure which pained her more.

They regrouped in the bedroom to gather themselves. Pierre paced back and forth, still in his dressing gown, and wound the end of his beard between his fingers with such vigor Natasha worried he might rip it off. Natasha changed into a dark navy dress and a linen housecoat.

“It was only a little blood,” she said, examining the nightgown, Adrastos on her wrist. “There would’ve been more if something was wrong.”

Pierre hadn’t stopped pacing. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not bleeding anymore. It’s passed, whatever it is.”

“And you don’t—you’ve never felt this sort of thing—?”

“Yes, the pains are new.”

“I’ll kill Pasternak. The _bastard_ , leaving at a time like this.”

“He was only obeying the edict.”

“Should we leave too?” Pierre said, worry tensing his every syllable.

Natasha bit her lip. “What will they do if we break house arrest?”

“Won’t they be leaving as well?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “They can’t possibly be abandoning the churches, can they?”

Pierre was silent in his thoughts for a long moment. His pacing came to a stop in front of the dresser. “Well,” he said carefully, “if they thought it was so important that we leave, wouldn’t they have lifted the house arrest? They would have told us, right?”

Neither of them knew. Uncertainty hung heavy in the air like a sickly metallic taste. Foolish as it felt, the decision was made to stay. Pierre wrote Marya to tell her and sent the messenger boy off again with another fifty rubles.

Then there came the matter of what to do with their increasingly unwelcome houseguest.

“Princess,” Natasha said to Hélène over breakfast, “you should know that an edict has been issued by the Tsar. Everyone’s been ordered to evacuate the city.”

Hélène, who still hadn’t bothered to change out of her dressing gown, set her cup aside and said in a voice as flat as it was proud, “I will be staying here.”

There followed an awkward pause.

“Tolya won’t be able to find me out in the country,” Hélène elaborated. “We agreed to meet in Moscow. And it can’t be that terribly pressing if the two of you have decided to stay as well.”

Pierre sighed to himself but said nothing in protest. Natasha was quietly relieved. If the princess was delusional, well, perhaps it was kinder to let her remain undisturbed in her delusions.

“As long as you’re comfortable,” she said, “you are welcome here.”

 _Comfortable_ was decidedly not the right word to describe Hélène’s stay thus far. Since the day she arrived, Pierre had taken to walking on eggshells and locking himself in his study again. Natasha’s own patience was wearing thin, though she made better effort to hide it.

_Married in May, a child by November. Things do seem to move very quickly for you, Countess._

The gall of it.

Had Natasha not been so frightened, she may have dwelled on it long enough to take offense. She was grateful only for the fact that Hélène refused to speak to them beyond mealtimes and instead preferred to spend her days in the guest bedroom. Natasha didn’t care enough to wonder what she did in there.

Preparations were made. She and Pierre gathered candles and cookware, naphtha fuel and blankets, the house keys and the wedding certificate, dishes and glasses and china. Whatever food was left in the pantry. Some water. Bandages and medicinal spirits, in case of the worst.

“My pistols,” Pierre stammered out suddenly. He took off down the hallway to the study, muttering, “Christ in heaven, I’d forgotten I still had the blasted things.”

“ _Pistols?_ ” Natasha said.

“Yes, pistols,” he said as he returned from the corridor with his guns. “Just in case. I’ll board up the windows as well.”

“And turn the lights off,” said Natasha. “We don’t want any soldiers banging down our door if they see someone’s home.”

“Sensible,” Pierre said. Pistols in his pockets, he went about the room dimming the gas-lamps. Khione stumbled as she followed him. “At least we’ll be prepared if it comes to blows. I’d rather take the French than Speransky. Worst comes to worst, you could always shoot a Frenchman. I might even get a commendation for—”

“Darling,” Natasha said gently, “I meant before we go upstairs.”

Pierre’s hand went dead around the knob of the hallway light. “Ah,” he said. His cheeks, already pink, flushed a little further. “Yes. That would make more sense.”

Natasha eased herself onto the sofa and sank down. Her ankles groaned in relief.

From the front door there came the sound of someone hammering their fists against the knocker as if with a vengeance. Natasha jumped at the noise. Adrastos, curled in her arms, his little heart beating too fast, tensed and buried his face in her hair.

“Pierre?” she said.

Pierre’s face went white then red. He set the pistols on the side table.

“Should we answer it?”

“No,” he said purposefully, striding across the hallway and into the parlor. “They won’t catch us off-guard again, the bastards.” He leaned up on the chaise, face to the window, and drew the curtains. Khione loomed close behind him.

“They’ll see you,” Natasha hissed.

Pierre shook his head. “My God. Look, Tasha. The world’s gone mad.”

From her seat on the sofa, Natasha turned to the window and pushed aside the curtain.

Outside was chaos. Swarms of people spilled onto Prechistensky Boulevard, aristocrats and peasants and everything in between. In their arms they held their valises and bags and coats and dæmons, anything they could carry, anything that could be salvaged. The street swelled with the crowd, gutter to gutter, and the noise that rose from it all was human and animal and awful. Walking among the evacuees were haggard-looking men marching in imperial green, rifles slung over their shoulders, some bandaged in gauze and bloodied and soot-streaked, others still hollow-eyed and limping. Soldiers. What was left of them, at least.

“They’re not staying?” Natasha whispered.

Pierre’s hand, the one still braced against the window frame, curled into a fist. “They’re in retreat.”

Whatever sensation hitched high in her chest, it wasn’t panic. But it was approaching it. “I thought they were to defend us.”

“So did I.”

Natasha bit her lip, bit down the swell of _something_ rising in her throat. Terror or nausea. Little difference between them these days.

“You don’t suppose we might have to leave after all?” she said.

Pierre gestured vaguely to the window. “We’ve left it too late now.”

She couldn’t say she disagreed. With the crowd a mile thick, one step past the front door and they would be swept away or trampled, and even if they managed to fight their way to the city limits, the Rostov country estate was a day’s travel by carriage, and with this most recent development, Natasha hardly trusted herself to make the walk upstairs to the bedroom, never mind the journey across the steppes.

Moscow was emptying itself from the inside out as if the sky was threatening to come down upon it. A fine situation they had gotten themselves into, Natasha thought. Leave, and they would break house arrest. Stay, and they would disobey the edict.

Presuming, of course, there would be anyone left to punish them for it either which way.

There, without warning, it came again. That same blunt heaviness, like someone had struck her in the back with the blunt end of a shovel, then the tightness that followed. Natasha exhaled forcefully as her fingers dug into the arms of the seat.

Pierre hurried to her side so quickly he almost tripped on the edge of the rug.

“Tasha?” he said, kneeling before the sofa. “Tasha, are you alright?”

Natasha slowed her breathing. The pain abated just as soon as it had come. “I felt it again,” she said.

“Is it worse?” he said. “Is it the same?”

“I don’t know!” she cried.

Pierre wrung his hands together. “Perhaps you should lie down. Maybe get a bit of rest?”

“I might not get up again if I do that.”

Khione let out a whimper that sounded more doglike than anything and rested her massive head on Natasha’s leg. With a ragged sigh, Natasha leaned back against the cushion and squeezed her eyes shut.

“You don’t think you could walk?” Pierre said, his voice growing ragged.

“I don’t know if I trust myself to.”

Pierre took her hands, his own trembling. “Would you trust me to carry you upstairs?”

“I can’t,” she said, a little hysterically. Her heart was beating far too fast. Her breath came short and shallow. “What if he’s coming?”

“You said you thought he wasn’t.”

“And you said he was!”

Natasha felt his hands convulse around hers. Of the two of them, she would’ve been hard-pressed to say who seemed closer to tears.

Suddenly they heard a thunderous knock at the door, so loud and furious that they jumped in their seats.

“Pyotr Kirillovich,” shouted the muffled but unmistakable voice of Marya Dmitrievna, “you will open this door at once!”

Pierre and Natasha froze at once, their panic forgotten.

“Natalya Ilyinichna, I know you’re in there too, young lady!”

“For God’s sake, let us in!” cried Sonya.

Pierre rushed to the door and flung it open.

Marya and Sonya stood on the porch, despite the summer warmth, in full travel dress. Salman’s lovely golden-brown feathers were molting. Sonya was holding a very harried-looking Tobery to her chest. The two of them looked as if they had been dragged bodily through the gutter of Nikitsky Boulevard and then promptly tossed into the departing crowd to be trampled.

Without a single word in greeting, Marya pushed forwards into the sitting room and dropped her carpetbags to the floor with enough force to rattle the door in its frame.

“Pyotr Kirillovich,” she snapped, taking a folded-up piece of paper out of her coat pocket, “I have never been more disappointed in your judgement in my entire life. I am told your staff have all run off to the country. I had hoped you would have had the sense to do the same, but I suppose it’s the fate of the sensible to be let down.”

“Marya—” Pierre began.

“ _Dearest Marya_ ,” she read, “ _I hope this letter finds you in good health. As much as it pains me to ask this of you_ ,”—Pierre winced—“ _you and Sonya must take your leave without us. Natasha and I will meet you at the Rostov country estate as soon as we can. For the meantime we will wait here and lie low. We wish you safe travels_.” Having finished, she crumpled up the letter. “Have you both gone completely mad? Governor Rostopchin has ordered all the prisons to be opened. The police brigades have disbanded. Our troops are heading east to the country. There won’t be anyone left to guard us when—not if, _when_ —the French arrive—”

“I think there’s something wrong with the baby,” Natasha cut in.

Marya’s face paled. All the anger melted away in an instant. Sonya dropped Tobery to the floor without meaning to.

Natasha felt her voice hitch as another spasm shuddered through her. Tears burned in her eyes and throat. “I’ve been having contractions. And there was blood on the sheets when we woke up. I can’t leave like this.”

“Natalya—”

“What’ll we do if he comes early and we’re on the road? We have to stay until he arrives.”

“Hush, Natalya, darling, just slow down,” Marya said. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since this morning.”

“And how many have you felt? How far apart?”

“I don’t know!” she said. “Two, three—”

“Has your water broken?”

“No, I—”

“This is normal.”

Natasha’s breath left her in an exhaled rush. “It is?”

Marya brushed Natasha’s hair back and stroked her cheek, the sort of way she may have done to her as a child. “You’re having false contractions, my darling. And a little spotting. Nothing’s wrong. This is your body preparing itself.”

“It hurt,” Natasha whimpered.

“Pierre, dear,” Marya said gently, without turning away from Natasha, “would you get the samovar ready? We’ll need a bit of raspberry leaf tea. And a glass of water too. Lukewarm, not cold.”

Pierre nodded and dashed off to the kitchen. Natasha felt her terror giving way to relief, then pitiful misery. A sob rose in her throat.

Marya clucked as she seated herself next to Natasha. Salman gave a soft chirp and gently groomed Adrastos’ feathers. Natasha wiped as her eyes and sniffled and hiccupped, feeling like a child again. How silly it was of her. Worrying all this time, and for nothing.

“Don’t cry, _galubka_ ,” Marya said, gathering Natasha in her arms. “The same thing happened to me once too. I wasn’t as far along as you are now when I thought I first felt labor pains, and I screamed so loudly my husband—”

Marya cut herself off suddenly, and Salman’s beak gave a sharp click. Natasha raised her head. Marya never stopped herself short of what she had to say. Marya was never caught by surprise. Not unless—

Ah.

Hélène was standing at the top of the stairs dressed in a pair of men’s trousers and a striped shirt tucked into the waistband. It looked like the sort of thing Anatole might have worn at one point. It probably was.

“Princess Kuragina,” Marya said, scandalized.

Hélène’s face collapsed in disappointment. “Oh,” she said quietly.

Disdain flickered across Marya’s face. “Princess,” she said again, “what on earth are you doing here?”

“I thought I heard Tolya.”

She may just as well have announced that she had enlisted in the army. The silence of the room would have been less awkward then.

Marya turned to Pierre, who had just returned from the kitchen with a steaming cup of tea in his hands, and said, without missing a beat, “Sonya and I be staying here for the interim.”

Pierre stopped dead in his tracks. “I beg your pardon.”

Sonya let out a barely-audible squeak.

“We’ll be taking the guest room, if you don’t mind. Don’t look so bothered, old friend. Heaven knows you’ve stayed at my house often enough.”

“And for that I’m most grateful, but—”

“Consider it returning the favor.”

There was an edge of sternness in her voice now, the sort that usually provoked a telling-off if it wasn’t listened to.

“Yes, ma’am,” Pierre said quietly.

Marya took the teacup from his hands and pressed it into Natasha’s. “Keep sipping at that. Slow breathing.”

Natasha nodded. Marya kissed her forehead and stood back.

“Pierre,” she said, more gently this time, “would you do us a favor and bring our things upstairs, please? I’m going to have a word with the princess.”

The room shuffled about; with a great heave, Pierre lifted their luggage into his arms and followed Marya upstairs, and Sonya seated herself beside Natasha.

Another false contraction shot through her. Natasha hissed in pain and bit down on her tongue to quiet herself. But it was gone again just as quickly as it had come.

“How does it feel?” Sonya asked.

“Like there’s a hand around me,” she said thickly, gesturing around her stomach. “Clenching down. Like the time Kolya knocked you down in the park when we were little.”

Sonya rubbed her hand in slow circles along Natasha’s lower back, where the pressure was greatest. “I’m sorry, Tasha.”

“It’s alright,” she said. “It’ll be alright.”

Sonya sighed and brushed back Natasha’s sweat-slick hair from her forehead. “You know,” she said, “I don’t think I’d care for it all that much myself.”

“What?”

“Pregnancy.”

Natasha cracked a smile. “It has its moments.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re happy with it. I know that you and Pierre are going to be wonderful parents, no matter what.”

Natasha squeezed her hand. “Like you’ll be when it’s your turn.”

Sonya wrinkled her nose. “God forbid. That could be me now. With Nikolai. I shudder to imagine it.”

“ _I_ think that would be darling.”

“The poor children. Plain as their mother and flighty as their father. It’s better this way.”

Sonya was smiling, but her face was drawn and pale. There was a certain tightness in how she held herself, a slight tremor in her hands. Even Tobery clung to her more insistently than normal. Natasha wasn’t sure how she hadn’t noticed it until now.

“You look worried, Sonyushka,” she said.

Sonya visibly hesitated. Only for a second, but it was enough.

“Someone’s dæmon stepped on Tobery’s tail on the way here,” she said. “A tiger, of all things. They didn’t even apologize.”

Tobery nuzzled Sonya’s arm with a pathetic mewl, his fur still dirt-matted from the street. There was something uncertain and frightful burning in her eyes. Something she wanted to say, or was afraid to, roiling feverishly in her head and just out of sight.

That was the problem with Sonya. You never knew what she was thinking. Only when she was.

Natasha touched her cousin’s hand. “There’s something else. Isn’t there?”

Sonya’s eyes flickered across Natasha’s face. She had never been one to hold a secret long before folding.

“Last night I put another candle in front of the mirror,” she whispered.

Natasha stiffened her jaw, remembering the prone figure and the flash of white in the darkness. Her hands grew tight around the teacup. There came another shiver of pain, but she hardly paid it any mind.

“I saw it again. The sky was filled with fire and the ground was covered in ash. And we were trying to leave, but we couldn’t. Or we’d left something behind.”

“It was only a game, Sonya,” she said. “You told me so yourself.”

“I thought so once. I’m not sure I do anymore.”

* * *

 

Marya didn’t bother knocking before she let herself into the guest room.

On the bed there was an open carpetbag that hadn’t yet been unpacked. A skirt and blouse hung over the footboard, wrinkled after having been hurriedly tossed aside. And Princess Elena Kuragina, sat at the bureau with her dæmon’s head in her lap and her arms around his neck and not an inch of space between them.

Elena startled when she saw Marya standing at the door. Her face was flushed. She wasn’t crying, but she looked close to it.

“I didn’t say you could come in,” she snapped.

There it was, Marya thought. That tongue. As a young princess, it had made her the darling of Petersburg’s salons; as a countess, it had made her the favorite of Moscow’s opera houses. Marya had seen women with twice her age and half her dignity torn apart limb from limb at the slightest whisper in the wrong ear, and somehow, maddeningly, Elena had flouted convention right before the eyes of society and not suffered a second for it.

The suitors—most of all the ones she entertained long after she was married to Pierre—were the worst of her transgressions. There had been Boris Drubetskoy and a slew of idiot noblemen with more money than sense. Captain Dolokhov had been noticeable only for the difference in their stations. As for his reputation, well, Marya had heard more than enough rumors to come to her own conclusions about him. And that was hardly to mention the brother, who was a licentious fop and only half of the trouble that had come from that rotten family.

Perhaps it was unseemly to ill of the dead, but thinking was hardly the same thing as speaking out loud, and with the way the Kuragins carried on they should be grateful to only be thought of in poor taste.

“This is Natasha and Pierre’s home,” she said. “Not yours. You would do well to remember that.”

Elena closed her mouth and turned back to the bureau with all the petulant air of a child who had just been scolded. Marya saw something glittering on the tabletop. A little silver trinket, like a child’s toy. Before she could get a proper look at it, Elena snatched it away and tucked it in her pocket.

Marya leaned back against the doorframe to take the weight off her ageing ankles and watched Elena without saying anything. There was a strange air of sadness about her, not the sharp pain of loss, but something deeper and duller and heavier, the sort she had seen in Pierre during his first marriage, the kind that had smothered Natalya at Prince Bolkonsky’s funeral.

Marya herself was no stranger to loss. Ten years ago, she had buried her boys barely four months apart, and for the next year she had locked herself in her room and wept and shouted her anger to God—how could this have happened, how dare He, what good was there in this, what had she done to deserve this misery.

Healing had taken its time. She had thrown herself into her work, burying grief under business. Soup kitchens and charities and knitting for the soldiers abroad. It had been as much helping herself as others. There was something to be said for surrounding herself with good, something in it that had made her remember that there was still kindness left in the world, that there was still joy and life in her faith.

Marya had been older then, and wiser than Elena was now, but the ache of it still pained her most days. And a woman like Elena, well, it was easy to hate a woman like that, who oozed French words and charm like perfume, who had never known a day of grief in her life, or at least had never let it on. Not anymore.

This was grief now, certainly. Marya recognized it all too well, and with surprise. She should live that long, she thought, to see the day she pitied a Kuragin.

Well. Stranger things had happened.

“What are you doing in those ratty things?” she said.

A shadow crossed Elena’s face. “I don’t want to run about in skirts.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My brother promised me we would meet in Moscow when he returned from the war. We can’t go back home.”

“And why is that?”

Elena’s eyes darted to the floor, shame in them. “I don’t owe you an explanation. You think I’m mad anyway.”

Marya sighed and crossed her arms. Grieving, yes, suffering, without a doubt, but not mad.

“The cuffs on those trousers are far too low,” she said. “You’ll have to sew them down or you’ll trip.”

Elena looked up in surprise. The snow leopard raised his head with a soft mewl. “I’m sorry?” she said.

“If you’re going to dress like a man, that’s alright by me, but at least do it properly. I’ll find you Natalya’s sewing kit and you’ll fix the hems.”

Elena still didn’t look as if she fully believed her. She glanced down at the legs of her trousers and tugged uncertainly at the fabric. “I don’t know how to.”

Marya smiled and pulled out a chair for herself. Salman found a perch on the frame of the standing mirror. “I’ll show you how. Come. We’ll make a seamstress out of you yet.”

* * *

 

Napoleon had been robbed of his rightful victory.

Moscow stood before the _Grande Armée_ like Babylon, a beauty even from a distance, a city brought to its knees.

And defiant all the same.

No delegation had been sent to greet the victorious general at his approach. No surrender, no invitation to parley. Napoleon sent his aides into the city to seek out the proper officials. They returned with none. Moscow had been abandoned, they said. The Tsar, in his stubbornness, had refused a surrender. General Kutuzov hadn’t left a single man behind to stand guard.

The order was given to march. The _Grande Armée_ crossed the Moskva in three lines to converge at the city center. In the distance, the Russian army ran in retreat.

By afternoon the French troops would take the Kremlin. Then onwards to Petersburg, and whatever lay after that.

Russia had fallen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUST TO CLARIFY; Marya is still the gay icon we know and love. Her husband and sons died years previously.


	37. 1867 Prechistensky Boulevard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which many things have changed, but others have not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fact I felt like sharing: @MaplePaizley, in her never-ending quest to troll me, read some post on tumblr about writing in different fonts and decided she should change the rest of the ODAD Google Doc to comic sans.
> 
> I suffered this for about twenty minutes before changing it back.
> 
> I'm going to troll @thewhiskerydragon back and say that she was unironically bemoaning the fact that we didn't go with chapter titles on this fic, so she couldn't entitle this one 'the boys are back in town' 
> 
> On a (slightly?) more serious note, this giant, ridiculous fic is turning one whole year old in three days. A lot of you have been with us since the very beginning, on February 21st, 2018, and it continually blows our minds. We are so, so thankful for all of you, and please know that we treasure every single interaction we have with you very dearly.

The light had gone out of Moscow.

Anatole and Fedya arrived in the early evening, as the sky was darkening and the Sun was sinking in the distance. Exhaustion had worn down on them until every step rattled through their bones. Once there would have been buskers and traders bustling in the streets, even at the outskirts of the city. But all around them was silence. Onwards and onwards they pressed, street after street, over bridges and under canals, through alleys and gunnels, and still not a soul in sight.

They were in the Tverskoy District now, not all that far from Prechistensky Boulevard. Here was Sverdlov Square, there was Petrovka Street, behind them Kuznetsky Most, and emptiness sprawled out in every direction, desolate as a smoking field after battle.

This wasn’t the Moscow they remembered. This wasn’t the city they had left behind. They hadn’t been prepared for this.

“Fedya,” said Samira, hackles raised, “I smell gunpowder.”

Fedya saw Anatole tense, every inch of him, through his uniform jacket. Out of the corner of his eye, a flicker of movement, a shadow, a sound. Fedya turned his head.

Further on, past the Kabare Theatre and about halfway down Petrovka Street, he saw a swarm of blue-jacketed soldiers milling about the front steps of the Hotel Mosvka. A table had been set out in the street, where several men sat playing cards and passing around a bottle and speaking in a language he couldn’t understand but recognized all too well.

Frenchmen.

Fedya’s hand twitched for the pistol at his belt. His mind, in counterargument, forced his limbs into stillness. They hadn’t been seen yet, but there was a festering trepidation in the air, in the soldiers’ conversation, and it had stretched to a dangerous thinness, threatening to crack and splinter at the slightest movement or sound.

Anatole looked back to Fedya, panic spelled out across his features. Fedya fought down his own fear as he took in the ruin that lay before them.

So, Borodino must have been a loss. Defeat, then invasion. No men left to defend Moscow. Where had General Kutuzov gone? A retreat? An abandonment? Was he already dead?

Fedya took hold of Anatole’s wrist. Through the fabric of his sleeve he was trembling almost too violently to hold. They were exposed here. Dangerous, that. Imperial green did well enough to hide a soldier in a forest; in the city, it marked them as the enemy. A wandering eye, a head turned out of place, and it would be a bullet between their ears.

Fedya’s eyes roamed across the square for an escape, an out, a hiding place. A doorway to duck into. An alley to disappear in. Anything.

The English Club was just across the street.

Fedya led Anatole across the square to its front steps, keeping close to the gutters. The door had been bolted shut. Rather conveniently, the window had been smashed. The two of them climbed in through its frame.

It looked as if a cannon blast had torn through the Club. Upended tables and chairs, ripped-out wallpaper, shattered wine bottles scattered across the floor like newspapers. Someone had taken to the piano with apparent vengeance, and now it lay tipped on its side with half its keys missing. Fedya led them out of the main room and down the corridor. Samira walked ahead, ears pressed flat to her skull.

This hallway led down a short flight of stairs and to the back door, left unlocked, as it always had been. Fedya had spent many nights drinking in this alley with Balaga and Hvostikov and Makarin and the other vagrants who saw fit to assemble here. Empty as it was, the air still reeked of alcohol and piss and cheap cologne. He knew the way from here—through the alley, out onto Znamenka Boulevard, take a right turn to Kolymazhyny Pereulok, pass Volkhonka Mansion, and from there it was a straight path to Pierre’s house. He could have walked it in his sleep. He probably had before.

Suddenly Samira halted in her tracks, her fur standing on end. Fedya’s feet stopped moving. At the end of the alley stood half a dozen men in blue with bayonets slung over their shoulders, dogs for dæmons, hungry-eyed.

Soldiers.

Their eyes locked. Anatole froze. Fedya did not.

Instinct took precedence over thought. His hands moved of their own accord. Unflinchingly, without a moment’s hesitation, they drew the pistol from his belt and fired one shot into a Frenchman’s heart. The soldier was dead before he hit the ground. The man’s dæmon, a sleek Doberman, exploded in a cloud of golden particles, like dust set under a stage light, and the other soldiers shouted out in French and drew their own guns.

Anatole still hadn’t moved from where he was standing. Fedya seized him by the back of his coat and pulled him along and took off running. Shots rang out over their heads. A window exploded in a shower of broken glass. They tore out of the alley, across Znamenka Boulevard, into the backstreet behind Matreshka’s, and pressed themselves flat to the wall.

Breathing hard, Fedya peered around the corner with his finger tensed on the trigger. The streets ahead were empty, save for the crumbling piles of furniture along the gutters. All the world was still and silent, holding its breath, watching. Waiting.

His hand found Anatole’s wrist. “We have to keep moving.”

“I—I can’t, Fedya,” said Anatole, winded. “My legs are shaking.”

“We don’t have any other options. Move or be shot.”

“Fedya—”

“I need you to keep it together,” he said, not unkindly. “Can you do that for me?”

Anatole’s throat worked silently as he swallowed and nodded.

“Good. Let’s go.”

Gently at first, and then when that yielded nothing, firmly, he pulled Anatole along, and the two of them pushed onwards.

Prechistensky Boulevard was unrecognizable. All along the length of the street, furniture lay ruined in piles of clumsily-arranged barricades. There were no lights in the windows. No distant strains of music, no ringing church bells, no rolling carriage wheels. It was if Moscow had been tipped upside-down and then promptly flipped right-side-up again like a giant, shattered dollhouse.

Finally, they arrived at number 1867. Samira kept her head turned to the street as they started up the front steps. Fedya turned the doorknob, then when it refused to give, jiggled it. Locked.

“Shit,” he said.

“Oh, God,” said Anatole. “He’s left. He’s packed up and run.”

“Hush,” said Fedya.

“We came too late. Look, Fedya. The windows are boarded up.”

Fedya narrowed his eyes. Anatole was right. Half-right, at least. Pierre may have been a fool, but he was a paranoid fool, and you didn’t board up your windows if you were in a hurry to leave, which the rest of Moscow certainly had been. Again, Fedya turned to the door and threw his weight against it. Nothing.

Then the door swung outwards violently.

They were greeted, quite literally, with the business end of a revolver.

Fedya drew his pistol again. Anatole screamed and threw himself to the ground. A second passed, then five.

Marya Dmitrievna lowered her revolver—a revolver, goddammit, he had been right all along—pale-faced. “Christ in heaven,” she breathed.

Anatole slumped to the porch, one hand over his heart, and heaved a shuddering sigh of relief.

“Madame Akhrosimova,” said Fedya, hardly registering his own shock. “We didn’t expect to see you here.”

The feeling was mutual, evidently. Marya composed herself and drew her shawl around herself, and her dæmon stared with golden eyes that were for once disbelieving and fearful. “Captain Dolokhov,” she said. “Prince Kuragin. You two had better come in.”

Fedya helped a still-trembling Anatole peel himself off the ground. Marya held the door open and ushered them into the front hall.

A thin crack of light edged its way through the transom window, narrow as a sheet of paper, but the gas-lamps were unlit. Once, not long ago, this room had been filled with their honeyed warmth, the buzz of vodka, Hélène’s ringing laughter. Now it lay still and silent under a layer of dust, curtains draped over the windows, the fireplace gated off, settees and ottomans and tables braced along the doorways like blockades. A cold husk of its former self.

Fedya shivered.

“You both look half-dead,” Marya clucked, prodding Anatole’s narrow chest. “No meat on your bones at all.”

If Anatole said anything at all in response to that, Fedya didn’t listen. Across the room, he heard the sound of feet pattering down the stairs. A beautiful snow leopard with marble-blue eyes stood on the middle step.

“Lena!” the dæmon cried, a voice Fedya had never heard before in his life.

From the top of the stairs there came a sharp gasp. Fedya looked up.

Her hair had grown longer and wilder, and she wore it in a loose plait, which he didn’t remember at all. Her cheeks were pale, her lips unpainted. The shirt and trousers—God above, men’s _trousers_ —she was wearing surely weren’t her own.

But beneath it all, she was still Hélène.

Fedya reached for Anatole and touched his shoulder, tilting his head towards the stairs. Anatole gasped softly. He met his sister’s gaze as if with eyes unseeing, wanting to believe but afraid to, and Hélène stared back, straining forwards against herself as if in fear that one false step would shatter the illusion. Twin souls, just as tightly bound to each other as he and Samira were.

“Lena?” Anatole whispered.

“Toto,” said Hélène.

He took a halting step forwards, then another, and suddenly she was rushing across the room too and they collided in the middle, and she gave a great cry as they collapsed into each other’s arms. Anatole clung to Hélène, shoulders heaving as he wept, and the two of them slowly sank to the floor, still holding each other.

Fedya stood back and said nothing. Every second he waited he died a little inside. Everything in him screamed to run to Hélène and pull her into his arms, to hold the both of them as tightly as he could.

But they deserved this moment to themselves. That much, he would give them.

“You have a new outfit,” Anatole hiccupped. “It looks familiar.”

Hélène smiled and wiped at her eyes. “Do you like it?”

“Whoever tailored those hems should be shot.”

Hélène gave a watery laugh. She ran her hands up and down his arms, squeezed his shoulders, kissed his forehead and cheeks, as if to properly make sure he was still there. “I missed you, Toto.”

Anatole sniffled and buried his face in her shoulder, his voice hitching with quick sobs. “I—I—God, I was s-so _scared_ , Lena, I—”

“Shh, darling, I know. You’re alright. We’re going to be alright.”

They must have forgotten themselves for a moment. Forgotten where they were, the eyes that still lingered on them. If they hadn’t, Danali would not have rubbed her cheek against Hélène’s, and Dahanian would not have crawled into Anatole’s arms, and Marya Dmitrievna and her dæmon would not have looked away in disgust.

It didn’t matter. Society meant nothing here, not in war. Marya and her dæmon could judge them and damn their souls to hell and Fedya wouldn’t lose a second of sleep over it.

Still clinging to each other, whispering hushed words Fedya couldn’t quite make out, Hélène helped Anatole to his feet. For a moment, they looked frightfully young. Childlike. They weren’t meant to be apart, Fedya thought. Now as he looked again, he saw happiness reflected in their faces, joy he hadn’t realized was missing before.

Hélène, remembering herself, drew away, Dahanian with her. Anatole swayed for a moment, unsteady, before she caught him by the elbow and righted him with a quiet apology.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said, waving her off. He caught Fedya’s eye and tilted his head towards him. “Besides, I think there’s someone else who wants to see you.”

Hélène turned to Fedya. Surprise and delight dawned on her face like the sunrise. Something inside of him melted. Fedya gasped softly as she wrapped him in her arms. The warmth of her was unreal. She smelled of jasmine and amber, like the cologne Anatole used to wear in Moscow. He pressed his face into her hair and allowed himself one shuddering exhale.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, thank you.”

Fedya’s heart, heavy and sore as it was, swelled with tenderness. He felt tears prickling in his eyes and hurriedly blinked them away. He couldn’t cry. Not here, not now.

He squeezed her hand instead, not trusting himself to speak. Hélène’s skin was soft against his, the lines and curves of her palm familiar as his own, every vein and whorl and crease, and he traced them with his fingers by feel and never looked the whole time.

This hadn’t changed. Whatever else had, this hadn’t.

“You lot should come upstairs,” Marya Dmitrievna cut in. “The first floor isn’t safe anymore. And you have some explaining to do.”

* * *

 

Hunger and weeks on end of no rest had left Anatole frail, but he hadn’t expected the walk upstairs to the second-floor drawing room to be what finally did him in.

On the first step, his legs folded beneath him and he stumbled over the stair. Hélène, quick-thinking, sensible, stubborn Hélène, caught him before he could properly fall, one hand on his hip and the other still holding his.

“The ride here was horrendous,” she said lightly, as if they were discussing the weather. “They’d shut down the civilian trains. I had to take a cattle car for the last stretch.”

“Can’t say our trip was much better.”

“I can tell, you poor thing. Look how much weight you’ve lost. I can feel your ribs through your—”

“I know,” Anatole said, a little sharply, humiliation burning in his face.

Hélène caught herself off in mid-sentence. Her eyes widened. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” he said. “It’s fine.”

As if to lessen the sting of her words, she added, “Fedya’s looking a little worse for wear too.”

Anatole cast a quick look over his shoulder, where a rather harried-looking Marya Dmitrievna was fussing over the cut on Fedya’s forehead. But Hélène was only being generous. Fedya was thinner, certainly, but there was still a formidable strength in the breadth of his shoulders and the musculature of his chest. He had had more to lose, Anatole supposed. And as for Anatole himself, who had been slight to begin with, the thinness of his frame was now something closer to _sickly_.

It didn’t matter. Hélène was here, and they were together now, and safe and alive, and that was all that mattered. He felt the room settling in around him, solidifying. This wasn’t a dream. Not some feverish, wishful concoction of his mind.

The rush of euphoria began to subside. Plenty of room, then, to feel all the unpleasant sensations it had made him forget.

Every joint in his body ached like fire. His head felt as if it had been split down the middle. What little he could feel of his legs was pure agony. And in the pit of his stomach, the awful groan of hunger. Anatole hadn’t eaten for almost a full day. It could just as easily have been a year ago.

“Toto,” Hélène said gently, breaking through his thoughts. “You look pale, love. Are you alright?”

Anatole realized that he was swaying on his feet again. Hélène, who must have realized it a second later, braced one hand on his waist and the other on his shoulder. Her hands were soft, so kind, grounding. As familiar as his own breath.

Then confusion set in. Hélène was here, yes, but she shouldn’t have been. She should have been in Petersburg where they had left her, and Petersburg was not Moscow, and Moscow was not anything he had expected or remembered, and all the world had been turned on its head, and the more he mulled it over in his head the less any of it made any sense.

“Lena,” he began, “why are you—?”

Anatole’s question withered and died on his tongue when a tall, familiar figure appeared in the doorway.

Occupation had not been kind to Pierre. He had lost weight, but the unhealthy sort, and there was now an unnatural gauntness to his face that suited him even less than corpulence. One of the lenses of his spectacles had a crack in it. The fabric of his waistcoat was stained with tea. His beard looked as if it hadn’t seen a razor in years.

Dahanian stepped forwards as Pierre did, to stand in between him and Anatole, who shrank back in on himself until he had almost disappeared into his jacket. Hélène squeezed his hand, three quick pulses. Anatole squeezed back and reminded himself to breathe.

“Pierre, good man,” he said, a moment too late for grace.

Pierre blinked. He looked at Anatole as if he had been raised from the grave before his very eyes. “They told us you were dead,” he said. “You died at Borodino. You were _dead_.”

“It didn’t take,” Anatole said weakly.

Pierre’s face was now so pale it seemed more grey than anything. He muttered something under his breath, too low for any of them to hear, and staggered off with all the bewildered air of a man who had just seen a ghost.

Still grasping Anatole by the shoulders, Hélène rounded the room until they came to the sofa and made a show of easing him down. Anatole gasped at the softness of the cushions. It felt as if he had sunk into a cloud, something impossibly silken and plush. Then, with a look of self-satisfaction in her eyes and a smile tugging at her mouth as if to say _what did I tell you_ , Hélène pulled his feet onto the ottoman and began to unlace his boots.

“We’ll have to clean these,” she said. “Or get rid of them.”

“Does that really matter?”

“Of course it does. Look at them. I’ve never seen you in anything so filthy.”

“Elena,” called Marya from the other side of the room, behind the sofa where Anatole couldn’t see, “I could use an extra pair of hands for dinner.”

Hélène pressed her lips together tightly. Her hands stalled in their work, only for a moment. “If you wouldn’t mind, Marya—”

“Go help her,” said Anatole, drawing his feet off the ottoman. “I’m not some invalid. I can take my own shoes off.”

“Tolya,” she began.

And there he saw it—she was afraid to leave him again. Afraid that if she did, it might push their luck one turn too far and she’d lose him for real. His heart ached. He reached forwards and held her hand.

“I’ll still be here when you come back,” he said. “Alright? And we’ll see if we can find a jar of polish.”

Hélène wiped her hands on her skirt and stood. “Alright.”

She left to join Marya, but not before placing a kiss on his forehead. Anatole had just slipped off the other boot when he felt the cushion dip beneath him. He turned his head to the side and then wished he hadn’t.

For a moment, he almost didn’t recognize Natasha Rostova. Her hair had grown in thicker and longer since he had last seen her, her cheeks fuller and rounder, and there was a curious golden glow to her skin. She looked radiant and healthy. The sight of it made him queasy with guilt.

Almost unconsciously, she touched her hand to his face, tracing the hollow line of his cheek with her fingertips.

Anatole’s breath came quick and he flinched away. Natasha drew her hand back.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I thought my eyes must’ve been playing tricks on me. They told us you were dead.”

“I feel it,” he said.

Natasha frowned. Her eyes raked over his loose uniform and dirty hair. Anatole burned with indignation and embarrassment. How pathetic he must have looked to her. Filthy, exhausted, too skinny, shrinking away at any contact that wasn’t familiar. No trace at all of the handsome prince who had danced with her in a Moscow ballroom one ephemeral winter night.

Natasha’s hand came to a rest at the swell of her belly, now bulging at the waistline. How he hadn’t noticed it before was beyond him. His heart skipped out of beat.

“Natalie,” he said, his mouth far too dry, “I didn’t realize you were—”

“Well, I am.”

“Oh,” he wheezed. “When—?”

“It has nothing to do with you. And it’s not why I came to talk.”

Anatole allowed himself to relax, if only for a moment.

Natasha made her voice low and solemn. “Anatole, what happened between us…no one else can know. Please. For the child’s sake.”

Anatole’s eyes darted back to her stomach. His throat tightened. “Pierre already does.”

He heard her breath catch. “You told—?”

“No, I haven’t told him anything. I thought you—”

“No,” she said quickly. “Not the other thing.”

Anatole exhaled.

Her hand closed around his wrist. God only knew how frail it must have felt in her grip. He looked up again, into her eyes, dark and troubled, ancient, and saw his own haggard reflection looking back at him.

“You must promise me,” she said.

“I do. I won’t tell a soul.”

“Thank you.”

From across the room, Pierre cleared his throat loudly. Natasha dropped Anatole’s hand and drew back. Anatole realized, with a sudden sense of childish dismay, how frightened he was of the two of them.

“It’s good to see you alive,” she said quietly, addressing him without looking. “These are difficult times. I don’t think we would survive them on our own.”

* * *

 

Marya Dmitrievna served tea in the same way she dispensed opinions—excessively, and without asking permission beforehand.

The war, evidently, wasn’t going to put a stop to that. In the corner of the room by the fireplace, she had improvised a sort of kitchenette, where large pot of water sat on the floor with pans neatly lined up along the side table by the samovar, and a cast-iron stove now stood where the piano once had.

Fedya accepted the mug that was thrust into his hands with only the barest hint of ill grace and cradled it to his chest. It smelled so strongly of rum that his eyes watered.

By the window there was a circle of couches surrounding the tea table. Natasha gestured for the six other guests to make themselves comfortable, and they sat with their saucers balanced in their laps as they waited for their tea to cool off while Marya left the pot to simmer in the corner. A whiff of charcoal smoke from the samovar drifted in, filling the room with a bitter warmth.

Of all the people to assemble under one roof _,_ Fedya mused, this may have been the most unusual assortment he could have dreamt up. Him, the assassin; on either side of him, the profligate prince and the fallen queen of society. Across the table—the bastard count, _le terrible dragon_ , the little countess, and the cousin. All the last scraps and remnants of Moscow.

The air of the room was far from peaceful, but there was a sort of uneasy détente between them all. At least, while they waited for dinner.

“I see you’ve been redecorating,” Anatole offered, gesturing to the boarded-up window.

Marya let out a dry laugh. Natasha’s cousin—Sonya, if he remembered correctly—lowered her head. Pierre swept his eyes across the room.

“People have been fleeing for days,” said Marya. “The Tsar issued an edict. The Drubetskoys left for the country last week. Then the Zhivagos and the Antipovs and the Komarovskys. All gone. Their houses are all empty.”

“Who’s left, then? Besides us and the French,” asked Fedya.

“Only the foreign merchants and the caravan traders down at the Rybenka. There might be others. I imagine they’ll be on their way out soon enough.”

Fedya gritted his teeth. “And yet you lot saw fit to stay? What, did you want the privilege of killing Napoleon yourself?”

“We were placed under house arrest,” Pierre snapped, bristling.

There followed a pause. Dangerous, that quiet. Anger in it.

“Dare I ask what for?” said Fedya.

Natasha’s hand drifted to her belly, seemingly unconsciously, and that was answer enough for him.

Fedya sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why on earth would you stay here with an unborn child?”

Natasha’s cheeks flooded with pink. “I didn’t want to leave my husband behind.”

“Nor I my cousin,” added Sonya, whose face was mostly obscured by her saucer.

“Nor I my goddaughter,” Marya said. “I wonder now why I didn’t just drag the three of them out of Moscow myself.”

“Pierre is intransigent at the best of times,” Hélène said, so casually and confidently that he may just as well have not been sitting right across the table.

Anatole craned his neck to the boarded-up window. Danali followed suit. “I don’t suppose it helps that these are the worst of times.”

One of the pots in the corner of the room began to bubble and boil over. Marya set her teacup aside and rose to her feet, dusting off her apron, and said, “That’ll be dinner.”

By now the heat of the room had grown sweltering. Fedya loosened his collar and draped his uniform jacket over the back of the chair. Marya returned from the kitchenette with an enormous steaming copper pot which she lay on the table. Fedya’s stomach growled at the smell of it.

Marya ladled soup into seven bowls and passed them around the table. “Eat,” she said, stern and matronly. “But take it slow.”

And with that, Anatole began to spoon soup into his mouth like a starving animal, as if he hadn’t had a proper meal in ten years.

Marya rapped the ladle across his knuckles. “Slowly, I said!”

Anatole dropped the spoon and squeezed his hand between his knees, wincing. “I wasn’t—”

“If you wolf it down like that, you’ll make yourself sick,” she snapped. “Now, sit up straight.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, like a scolded schoolboy.

Sonya chuckled and shook her head.

Fedya stirred his own bowl and ladled a spoonful into his mouth. Onions, potatoes, garlic, stewed to savory perfection in bone broth. It was the sort of thing his mother might have made for him once, long ago, when winter had set in, or on a feverish chilled night when he was ill. The taste of it brought him back twenty years and a thousand miles ago. He felt tears prickling in his eyes.

“Thank you, Madame Akhrosimova,” he said. “This is wonderful.”

Marya’s face softened. “You’re very welcome, Captain.”

“I think the Captain’s being generous,” said Sonya, smirking, stroking her dæmon’s fur with one hand. “You put too much pepper in it.”

Anatole shot Sonya a disbelieving look. Natasha, sat next to her, laughed and rolled her eyes.

“Oh, quiet, you,” said Marya, but there was no bite in her words, nothing but tired affection. Even her horrid dæmon seemed less terrifying at close-range.

Perhaps that was just how things worked, Fedya thought. Everything was less frightening with a belly full. Or the world had gone mad, and so had he, and he was too far gone to care.

He could tell from the silence that followed as they ate just how hungry everyone had been. Fedya couldn’t blame them—after months of army rations, Marya’s cooking tasted like heaven, and in five minutes flat he had emptied his bowl entirely. He got the sense that there wouldn’t be seconds, even if he asked.

Once everyone had finished eating and all the bowls and cutlery had been set aside, Marya caught Anatole and Fedya with a demanding look and said, “We were told that Prince Kuragin had perished in battle at Borodino. I’m sure I speak for everyone in the room when I say that we’d be curious to hear exactly what happened.”

Onto business. Anatole averted his eyes.

There was no nice way to put this, no way to mince words and sanitize the story. Better just spit it out, Fedya thought. They couldn’t think much lowlier of him or Anatole than they already did.

“The truth is what we don’t know what happened at Borodino,” he said, “and the reason we don’t know is because we weren’t there. We fled before the battle.”

Pierre’s teacup clinked loudly as he dropped it back against the saucer. “You _deserted_?” he said.

There was an air of accusation in his voice that set Fedya on edge. The room turned on them, disapproval in their stares, pride in Hélène’s. Someone tutted.

“Yes,” Fedya said coolly. “And you’re under house arrest, and the rest of you’ve disobeyed the edict. We’re all criminals, every one of us. None of you have any right to judge us for this.”

Pierre blushed furiously. His bear-dæmon lowered her head.

“The French had abandoned a village on the banks of the Luzha,” Fedya continued. “That was the night before Borodino.”

Anatole, recognizing where this would lead, drew his empty bowl a little closer to his chest. Danali crawled down his shirt to hide.

Fedya looked down at his own hands. He pressed his palms together until they stopped shaking. Breathe in, breathe out. “They had left some prisoners behind. Two that we know of, and one had already died by then. They’d been severed.” He looked back up. A knot of tightness rose in his throat. He swallowed past it, forcing himself to continue. “From their dæmons.”

Sonya clutched her wildcat-dæmon to her chest. The eagle on Marya’s shoulder startled and ruffled his wings with a great _thwack_. Khione let out a panicked growl. Dahanian leapt into Hélène’s lap, the fur along his back standing on end.

Only Natasha, sat in the middle of the sofa, small and shrinking further, white in the face, vacant in the eyes, remained still.

“It’s true, then?” Pierre whispered.

Hélène caught his eye with a horrified look.

“I’ve read of it before,” he said.

“Pyotr Kirillovich,” Marya Dmitrievna said, and failed to continue.

A hot flush rose to Pierre’s face. As he spoke, he began to stammer. “Intercision, they call it. It’s common practice in the gulags as punishment. It…it’s supposed to kill immediately, the shock of it is so awful, but”—he wrung his hands nervously—“I’ve read that it’s possible. To do it without killing them, I mean.”

“Why?” Sonya breathed.

“This is vile,” said Marya. “That can’t be true.”

“No, no,” Pierre protested. “It’s real, I swear it. They said Napoleon himself had undergone intercision. He has no soul, he fears nothing, he _feels_ nothing—”

“Hold your tongue, Pierre,” Hélène snarled.

“You never told me this,” said Natasha. “You never—I didn’t know this was what you were studying.”

“You’re lying,” said Marya. “The both of you. They would never allow this. The Tsar—”

“We saw it ourselves,” Fedya said, to quiet the room. “Prince Bolkonsky was the only survivor.”

Natasha fixed her eyes on him, dark and roiling. He had never seen her angry, hadn’t thought she had the capacity for it. “Andrei is dead.”

Fedya paused, jarred. “That he is.”

“No. He died in February. There was an ambush at the Polish border. I received a letter from the War Office. He was dead before you two left.”

Beside her, Sonya lowered her eyes and murmured, “Reported missing in action, Tasha.”

Natasha closed her mouth at once. The tendons in her neck stretched taut, like the coils of a piano string.

“Presumed dead,” Sonya continued. She met Fedya’s gaze levelly. Clever girl. Too clever, perhaps. “But he wasn’t, was he?”

The air of the room threatened to suffocate. All the anger left Marya and Hélène. Dread replaced it.

“They severed him?” Natasha whispered.

“He told his dæmon was named Eulalia,” Fedya said. This wasn’t the answer to her question. “He was interrogated by the French. He managed to survive it, somehow. Long enough to speak to us. He passed shortly after.”

“Was he in pain?” Natasha asked quietly. “Towards the end, I mean.”

Fedya thought back to Bolkonsky as he had last seen him and felt a great rush of pity and sadness. There had been nothing but pain in that. But that wasn’t what she needed to hear.

“No,” he said to Natasha, “he wasn’t at all. It was like going to sleep.”

Natasha pressed her lips together and nodded, just the slightest inclination of the head, resignation in her eyes. It was the most merciful thing he could have said. Fedya was familiar enough with the deep ache of loss enough to know he owed her that.

Then Anatole, like the stupidest man alive, opened his mouth to speak.

“He spoke to us, Natalie,” he said. “Before…while he was still coherent. He told us that he loved you. All he ever thought about was getting home to you.”

Natasha stared, silent and unmoving, save for the slightest trembling of her hands. _Natalie_ , he had called her. A pet name, a gesture of intimacy. Jealousy rose red in Pierre’s face.

Anatole reached into his coat pocket and laid something on the table between them. Fedya recognized it a moment later as the icon Bolkonsky had given to him.

“He told us his sister Mary gave this to him before he was deployed,” he murmured. “He asked that we return it to her. I think it would be best if you took it.”

Natasha shot to her feet. For a moment, Fedya expected her to burst into tears. He didn’t expect the cold fury that tightened her face, or the hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“You,” she said to Anatole, in a voice that threatened to fray into screaming. “How dare you? Knowing everything that has happened?”

Anatole recoiled as if lashed across the face. His eyelids fluttered. His cheeks flushed.

“What have you done to deserve this?” she hissed. “What have you ever brought anyone besides misery? Why is my Andrei dead while _you_ lived?”

“I’m sorry,” he began.

“Sorry? What good does that do us now? He stayed and fought and died to protect us. And what did you do? You fled at the first sign of trouble. You coward. You ran while he _suffered_.”

“Natalie, I—”

“It should be you dead instead of him. I _wish_ it were you instead.”

“Natalya,” snapped Marya.

At her godmother’s voice, Natasha closed her mouth and lowered her eyes. Her hands trembled. She looked smaller, somehow, standing than sitting.

Anatole finally summoned the gall to raise his head again. “I know that nothing I say can make up for what I’ve done, but—”

“You’re right,” she said coldly. “So there really is no point in speaking to you anymore, is there?”

Pierre reached for her as she swept past the table. “Tasha, darling—”

She was already gone. Halfway down the hall, they heard a door slam shut.

Pierre turned his eyes on Anatole, furious, accusatory. Anatole flinched. Pierre shook his head in disgust and took off down the hallway after Natasha.

The room cleared quickly after that—Sonya went to help Marya wash the dishes and Hélène busied herself cleaning the crumbs off the couch cushions, leaving Anatole and Fedya to their own devices. Several rooms over, they heard Natasha sniffling quietly, interspersed with the gentle rumbling of Pierre’s voice.

Fedya laid a hand on Anatole’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Well, Tolya,” he said, “you certainly have a way with women.”

The look on Anatole’s face was miserable beyond words. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”


	38. Up the Stairs & Down the Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An evening in Moscow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anatole Kuragin: Moment Killer

After dinner there came the matter of divvying up sleeping spaces for the night. Pierre and Natasha had prepared the drawing room to house five, themselves included, and between the guests and their dæmons and the possessions they couldn’t bear to part with and the furniture barricading the doors, the room was straining at the seams and threatening to burst.

Fedya suggested they simply retire to one of the other rooms down the hall, but Marya wouldn’t hear any protests.

“We’re more likely to be noticed if all the rooms are lit,” she said. “For now, we will live as though we are not here.”

She pointed them instead to a mattress in the far-left corner of the room, where Hélène had slept for the past three nights. It would be a tight squeeze, she said, but they would make it work by simple virtue of the fact that they had no other choice.

Fedya and Anatole moved their things—what little remained of them; their beaten-down leather rucksacks, now-empty canteens, army-issue pistols—into their corner and sank onto the mattress with Hélène. Sonya curled up in an armchair to read, stroking her hand through her dæmon’s fur, and Marya settled onto the settee to knit. Pierre and Natasha still had yet to return from their excursion. Now that evening had properly set in, with the gas-lamps turned off there was no light in the room save for the candles on the table and their flickering yellow glow.

After some time, the door creaked open.

Natasha’s eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. Pierre, still sniffling himself, walked behind her with his hand on her shoulder, murmuring something in her ear. When Marya saw them, she lowered her knitting and rose to her feet. She approached Natasha, far more tentatively than Hélène had ever seen her, and reached for her hand. Natasha and Pierre joined her on the sofa, one on either side.

Anatole shrank away, unable to look at them. Hélène saw Pierre glaring before he turned away himself.

Marya, sensing the tension that crackled in the room, stood from the sofa and made her way over to the mattress. Her shawl was drawn tight across her shoulders to ward off the chill of evening. Her half-moon spectacles were sliding down her nose. She looked shabby, for once, but insistently so, as if more by choice than circumstance. She would, Hélène thought. A woman like Marya Dmitrievna would cling to normalcy with a death grip, even now, even after all that had happened. There was some measure of respect in that.

“There’s a washroom down the hall,” Marya said, apparently to Anatole and Fedya. “The bathtub is full. It’s the only bathing water we have left, so please keep that in mind.”

Anatole took one look at Natasha and Pierre huddled together on the sofa and snatched his jacket off the floor and scurried off to the washroom. Marya sighed and went back to her knitting.

“They’ve redecorated,” Fedya said drily to Hélène, eyeing the room as if he had only just noticed its state of disarray. “Has it gone out of fashion, keeping your furniture in separate rooms?”

She lowered her voice. “Pierre was afraid that they were going to shoot through the windows. He and Marya thought this would be safer. But they’ve been here three days and no one’s fired anything yet.”

“Sensible. Best be prepared when they do.”

Hélène sucked in a slow breath. Fedya would know, she thought, what happened to a city besieged by a foreign army. He would know that better than anyone else in this room. And it looked as if the thought of it frightened him even more than it did her.

“You’ve seen what happens in war,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

Fedya lowered his eyes. “We shouldn’t talk about this.”

The conversation petered out, rather pathetically, like a candle under a glass. Neither knew what to say next. There was comfort in each other’s presence, relief, but discomfort too, something unfamiliar and unsure, a troubling vulnerability that stilled the air between them. Hélène was saddened by it. She had known Fedya for three years, all but lived with him for the better part of the last two. Why was it so difficult now, now that he was finally here again?

Hélène took him in, searching for familiarity in his face, looking for the man who had left her behind in Petersburg. He was there, certainly, but changed all the same. Fedya’s face seemed older somehow, his eyes darker and more distant. Samira’s pelt had faded through to silver where it had been only grey before, matched to the new pale streaks in Fedya’s beard. Above his eyebrow there was a still-healing cut, red and angry, like the ridge of a mountain range. Hélène traced its line with her finger, almost touching but never quite.

“How did this happen?” she asked.

Fedya closed his eyes. “Skirmish with the French. Bit of shrapnel caught me during the retreat. It’s nothing, really.”

“Do you think it’ll scar?”

His eyes still closed, Fedya grimaced. “Without a doubt.”

Hélène kissed her fingertips, then pressed them softly to his forehead. “Thank you for keeping him safe.”

“You didn’t need to tell me to, you know.”

“I think it was more I needed to tell myself.”

Fedya opened his eyes. Gently, he tugged at her wrist. They listed sideways until their sides were flush with the mattress and their legs splayed across the floor, feet pressing against the edge of the carpet until it curled over on itself. The blanket was soft beneath Hélène’s skin. Dahanian crawled over until he lay atop her, his head pressed into the crook of her neck, his fur tickling against her chin. She stroked his belly with one hand.

“We were going to come get you in Petersburg, you know,” Fedya said. “Thought we’d save you the trip here.”

Hélène smiled. “I thought the plan was ‘together in Moscow’.”

Fedya laughed gently. Hélène had never heard a sound so soft or sweet before. “‘Together in Moscow’,” he said, stroking Samira’s head. “Of course. I’d forgotten about that.”

“Where will we go now?”

“Hm?”

“We can’t stay in Russia. None of us. We’re criminals now, aren’t we?”

Fedya raised an eyebrow. A laughing smile tugged at his mouth, pride in it. He looked as if she had just told him she had fleeced Napoleon himself over a game of poker. “What sort of criminality did you engage in, Princess?”

Hélène scoffed. “You don’t really suppose my parents just _let_ me leave on my own, do you?”

“A runaway, eh?” he said. “Fine company for deserters like us.”

“Where are we running away to?”

“Budapest. Tolya was rather insistent on it.”

Hélène’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

“We’ll leave tomorrow morning. I’ll call in a favor from Balaga and get him to loan us a few horses and a troika.”

Hélène nodded along. “I brought money with me. Jewels we can pawn. We’ll live like kings, wherever we go.”

Fedya’s eyes crackled with warmth as he brought her hand to his lips. “Clever girl.”

Close now, the lines of his face had softened. Fedya wasn’t the sort of man prone to gentleness, or readily capable of it. Or she had thought that way once, at least. As things stood, this theory of hers was falling apart at the seams.

“I worried for you, you know,” she said. “Every single day.”

Fedya pulled back slightly with a tight smile. “Tolya deserved your worry far more than I did.”

“No,” Hélène said. She took his hand, pressed her thumb to the middle of his palm where it was warmest. “Don’t say that. Do you know how frightened I’ve been? All I could think of was him coming home alone and never seeing you again. I don’t know what I would’ve done. I couldn’t live without the both of you.”

Fedya’s eyes widened, green as glass. Hélène thought she saw tears in them. Had he thought he didn’t matter to her? Had she made him feel that way?

It was then that Anatole burst through the door, dripping wet, an equally-sodden Danali sulking at his shoulder. He had changed into an old waistcoat and trousers, both of which were comically too wide for him now.

“There he is,” said Fedya as the two of them sat upright. “How was the wash?”

“It was horrid,” Anatole declared. He threw himself to the mattress, a pool already forming at his feet. “The water was tepid at best. Danali fell in and got soap in her eyes.”

Hélène could have laughed. Four months without a proper bath, and he still found room to complain.

“I’d best excuse myself, then,” said Fedya, rising to his feet. “I hope you’ve left some clean water for me.”

He ruffled Anatole’s still-damp hair, earning him an annoyed huff, and took his leave.

Anatole snatched a towel off the floor and began to vigorously dry Danali. He held her around the middle to keep her from wriggling away. Her fur, once soot-stained and grey, had now returned to its original white. But it was still wet, which was evidently just as unacceptable as the filth had been.

“Let go of me!” she snapped.

“Not my fault you fell in, you clumsy twit.”

“For God’s sake, Tolya, I’ll dry on my own!”

Anatole ignored her and muffled her protests with the towel, until her fur had dried and stuck out to twice its normal volume. Danali caught the tip of his finger between her teeth and bit down, hard. Anatole shrieked. Hélène tipped her head back and laughed.

He hadn’t changed. Not a bit.

“Christ, Linoshka,” he spat. “That _hurt_.”

“I don’t care,” came the muffled sullen response.

“I know it hurt you too, you nasty little rat.”

“So I’m a rat now, am I?”

“You’re vermin,” he said. “I should’ve left you at Avdotyino. Or drowned you in the bathtub. Or—”

He never did get to elaborate on whatever else it was he had to threaten, because Dahanian took Danali by the scruff of the neck and set her between his paws. Without further preamble, he began to groom her, running his tongue over her coat in long, sure strokes. Danali didn’t look happy, but she certainly seemed less displeased.

Anatole sighed and sat back, cross-legged, leaning against the sofa with his eyes closed. In the dim candlelight, she could see where hunger had thinned his face and the dark circles under his eyes.

Hélène reached into her trouser pocket and drew out little Danali, turning the figurine over in her fingers. Anatole frowned when he saw it. His hand moved, seemingly on instinct, to the breast pocket of his coat.

“When did I give you that?” he said.

“The night before you left. You were drunk. A little delirious too, I think. You told me she’d keep me safe while you were away.” She held it out to him, offered it like a gift, a promise. “It worked.”

Anatole gently pushed her hand back. “You should keep it, then. It’ll still keep you safe.”

Hélène gave him a watery smile. “Alright. If you say so.”

“I still”—he reached into the pocket properly now, rooted around for a few seconds, until in his palm she saw a familiar silver glint and a little feline statuette—“I still have yours too. I kept it with me every day, and I’ll bring it with me to—has Fedya told you about Budapest yet?”

“He has.”

Anatole smiled. “So you know we were coming to find you in Petersburg, then.”

“You told me the plan was ‘together in Moscow’.”

Anatole frowned. It was sweet to see him so confused. Sweet and familiar.  “What?” he said.

Hélène laughed, thoughtless and happy for the first time in a long time. “That’s what you told me before you left.”

“Is that why you came here?” he said.

Hélène faltered, remembering the coldness of Vasily’s words, how heavy and leaden they sat in her heart, as a painful and familiar ache rose in her chest.

“Yes,” she said thickly, around the lump in her throat. “I ran. Mama and Papa don’t know that I’m here.”

His eyes darted to the mattress. His fingers began to worry at the fraying hems of his sleeve. He lowered his voice. “And do they know about…?”

“We received a letter from the War Office,” she said. “They said you were killed at Borodino.”

Anatole curled his hands into fists. Anger shadowed his face. “Well,” he said. “I can’t imagine Papa was overly distraught. He got what he wanted.”

“Toto—”

“A son who died nobly defending his country. I wonder if I’ve finally redeemed myself. I doubt I have.”

“Fuck what he thinks,” Hélène said, surprised at her own forcefulness, and she swelled with pride and outrage. She should have said this a long time ago. She should have _felt_ this way years ago. “You’re worth a thousand times more to me than his opinion ever will be.”

Anatole smiled. Sadness tinged the corners of it. But there was gratitude in it too.

“Was…was Mama alright?” he asked. “Do you think she’ll be okay?”

Hélène tipped his chin up with one hand, smoothing out the collar of his shirt with the other. “It’s probably best not to think of it.”

Anatole’s face fell. “And Lito?”

“Toto—”

“What will he think, Lena? We—we’ll see him again, won’t we? We’ll visit.”

“We can’t go back, Toto. You know we can’t.”

“Then we’ll write. Once we get to Budapest. We can do that at least, can’t we?” His voice hitched, as if something in him had bent and broken. “He should know we’re alive. Him and Mama. I don’t want to be dead to them.”

“You won’t be,” she said firmly.

“There won’t be a funeral,” he said. “Mama won’t even get to have that. And Lito—Lena, I never even said goodbye to him properly.”

Hélène pressed her lips together, and that was an answer enough for Anatole. Danali crawled into his arms and Anatole held her to his chest, crying silently. Hélène felt as though someone had taken to her heart with a rusty bayonet. It would’ve hurt less than seeing this. She wiped his tears on her sleeve and held him closer.

“No more of this,” she said. “We’ll be alright, you and I. We’ll find a way to be happy.”

As if on cue, Fedya reappeared in the doorway. He had changed into a fresh undershirt and braces—Anatole’s things, most likely, if the length of the trousers was anything to go by. His folded-up uniform jacket was tucked into the crook of his elbow. In his other hand he held his pistol and a glass jar of beard oil that Hélène distinctly recognized as once having belonged to Pierre.

“How was it?” she asked.

Fedya ran a hand through his hair, still wet from the bath. “I forgot how nice Bezukhov’s soap is.”

“While it lasts,” said Hélène. “Come, sit.”

The mattress sank as Fedya settled in beside Anatole, he and Hélène on either side, and Samira laid her head in his lap. Still crying without a sound, Anatole leaned his head on Fedya’s shoulder. Fedya gave Hélène a quick concerned look. Something wordless passed between them—he needed this, he needed _them_ —and they reached for Anatole’s hands and pressed close.

Hélène smiled, bittersweet and grateful. There was no hesitation in Fedya’s affection anymore. No stiffening when their hands brushed. No reservation in the fold of his arm around Anatole’s waist. No bristling even as Pierre’s eyes wandered over to the three of them in the corner of the room, hopelessly intertwined and inseparable, and stared indiscreetly. Their arrangement had no doubt offended his sensibilities.

For the first time, Hélène didn’t care.

“Is there an issue, Count Bezukhov?” Fedya asked.

Pierre turned his head away, crimson. “No, none at all. I apologize if I gave the impression—”

From somewhere beyond the north-facing wall there came a tremendous bang that shook the house right down to its foundation. Rumbling, and then what sounded like the corks of a thousand champagne bottles being unstoppered at once.

The room jumped as if startled by gunfire. Dahanian shot to his feet. Samira growled. Marya’s golden eagle shrieked and flew to the window.

“What the hell was that?” Anatole said.

“Did it come from the street?” said Sonya.

“It sounded further away,” Pierre said. “It—perhaps we ought to have a look…”

Khione in tow, he started over to the window, where a sheet of wooden planks had been hammered into the wall. With a great heave, he began to tear away the boards with such force that Hélène thought he might rip out the casement as well. When he was done, he kneeled against the sofa and pressed his face to the glass.

“My God,” he said, blinking. He took off his spectacles to clean them on the hem of his waistcoat.

Natasha laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Pierre?”

The others, on the opposite side of the room, erupted into a storm of whispers and murmurs. Pierre turned to them and replaced his spectacles. “Everyone come quickly.”

Slowly at first, they drifted over towards Natasha and Pierre and crowded together against the window. Hélène jostled her way in front of Fedya for a closer look. Anatole dipped into a crouch so that Sonya could see over his shoulder. Marya hovered behind them with her hand on Natasha’s back. The lot of them, in a rare moment of camaraderie, united by the terror of what they saw beyond the warped-glass panes.

Façades, blackened and crumbling, wood and brick splintering away to soot, almost close enough to touch. Charcoal and ash rose in a great cloud from the Kremlin Wall, where an explosive force had torn into the First Unnamed Tower, and plumes of smoke curled along the skyline, gleaming with the light of torches and gas-lamps.

“They’ve blown it up,” Pierre said. He straightened his spectacles, pressed them closer to his eyes. “My God, it’s all gone to dust.”

“I don’t believe this,” said Marya. “I don’t—”

“The Tower, Sonya. Can you see—?”

“—can smell it all the way from—”

“They’ll be tearing down St. Basil’s next, I reckon—”

“The _bastards_.”

“Will it fall?”

“—other side of the Moskva. We should be safe here.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that. They’ll be marching on—”

“—should’ve gotten out while—”

There came another explosion, this one further away but equally as startling, and the room settled into a fearful silence. Every creak of the floorboards could have been the groaning of a crumbling wall of bricks, every odd crack a gunshot. But there was nothing more from there. Nothing they could do but hide and wait.

After they all had washed and dressed for bed and settled onto their respective mattresses and sofas and cushions, Marya lit a candle and said a prayer over an icon of the Theotokos. Hélène watched their uneasy faces in the dim yellow light and squeezed Anatole’s hand tighter. Once the prayer was through, they bowed their heads and murmured a quiet _amen_.

“Goodnight, everyone,” Marya whispered. “Sleep well. May God watch over our souls.”

And with that, she blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness.

* * *

 

Sleep evaded Fedya that night.

For the past two hours, he had watched the hands of the clock and the shadows along the walls. Now it was midnight, and the room was shadowed in inky darkness thick as pitch. A thin slant of moonlight cut across the floorboards like a line of quicksilver. In the corner furthest from the door Marya and Sonya were squeezed lengthwise across a mattress. Marya’s dæmon had taken to the lamp as a perch. And there was Natasha, curled on the settee by the stairwell with a fur cloak slung over her and Pierre sleeping on the blanket at her feet. All was silent, save for the barely-audible sounds of their breathing and the gentle ticking of the clock.

Fedya looked to Anatole, who had turned in his sleep to nose his way into the crook of Fedya’s neck, and ran a hand through his hair. On the other side of the mattress, Hélène had her head against his chest, Dahanian curled under her arm.

How strange and sweet it was, he thought, to hold the two of them at once. How had he never noticed how similar they were? The proud arch of their eyebrows, their sharp cheekbones, the way the silvery light caught on their lashes. Softened in their sleep. They looked younger, less cold and guarded. Safe in his arms.

It seemed, at least, for a moment, that all the world was and peaceful. Surely the war couldn’t touch them here in this quiet little sanctuary they had carved out for themselves, so far removed from Borodino and the marching armies on the other side of the city.

But Fedya’s mind wasn’t nearly as silent. Something tremulous and agitated was working its way through his gut. He had been a soldier too long to ignore what his body was telling him.

They couldn’t stay here. It was time to run. And if they didn’t leave now, they would never escape, or something would happen to them before they did.

Fedya lowered his mouth to Anatole’s ear. “Tolya.”

Anatole groaned sleepily and burrowed into Fedya’s neck.

“Wake up, Tolya.”

Anatole’s eyelids fluttered. Fedya stroked his cheek until he turned his face up. “Fedya?”

“We have to go, _luchik_.”

“Why?”

“The longer we stay, the harder it’ll to be to leave.”

Anatole sighed and rolled onto his back. He tangled his hands in the folds of the blanket, drawing it under his chin. In the half-moonlight, the blue of his eyes was almost silver. “I suppose you’re right.”

Fedya propped himself up onto his elbows with a soft grunt. “Get your things ready.”

“Fine,” he said. “You wake Lena. She’ll only get angry if I do it.”

Fedya sighed and turned to Hélène, who seemed even less inclined to wake than Anatole had, and nudged her shoulder until she stirred. “Lena,” he said firmly. “Lena, are you—?”

Hélène slapped his hand away. “What?” she snapped.

“Grab your things,” whispered Fedya. “We’re leaving.”

“Right now?”

“Balaga will be down at the Rybenka. If we wait too long, he might leave.”

Hélène nodded and rolled off the mattress, and the three of them set off scurrying about the room.

There wasn’t a great deal to pack. Anatole and Fedya had brought nothing with them but their rucksacks, and all Hélène had was a beaten-down carpetbag. Fedya holstered his pistol at his hip, and the three of them started down to the front hall together, wincing at every odd creak. Through the transom window shot a narrow ray of moonlight that bathed the stairwell in silver, dust dancing like glitter as they kicked up clouds of it with their feet.

Suddenly the fur on Samira’s back stood on end. Fedya froze in mid-step with her, and that same sense of dread that he had felt earlier gripped him again. The air stilled.

“Fedya,” Hélène whispered, “what’s the matter?”

“Quiet. Something’s wrong.”

Then from the front door there came a great clamoring, a cacophony of men’s voices and barking dogs. Fedya drew his pistol. The floor thundered overhead with footsteps, human and dæmon alike.

“What in God’s name is going on down there?” barked Marya.

He tossed a glance up to the top of the stairwell, where she stood with her revolver drawn and ready, her dæmon at her shoulder like a terrifying golden shadow. Fedya thumbed the hammer of his own pistol and disengaged the safety.

“There are people outside,” whispered Anatole, white in the face.

The others assembled in the hallway behind Marya. Fedya felt as though the room were surrounding and drawing in on them all at once. The thrum of his heart was deafening in his ears. If he craned his neck, he could just make out the faint outline of silhouettes through the transom window and the gleam of something metallic. Fedya stepped forwards, now to the front hall proper, taking care to keep his gait light.

“What’s going on?” he heard Pierre ask. “Tasha—?”

“I’m coming.”

“Marya, what’s—?”

“Hush, Sofia.”

Something banged against the door so hard that it rattled in its frame. A fist, perhaps. The sound echoed through the front hall like the blast of a cannon.

“ _Hé!_ ” shouted a familiar voice from beyond the door. “ _Hé! Ouvre!_ ”

“Oh, fuck,” said Anatole.

“Dolokhov,” Pierre began.

Hélène latched onto Fedya’s arm with an iron-tight grip. “What is it?” she said.

Fedya gripped the pistol so tightly his hand went dead. His heart was beating far too heavily, a deafening roar in his ears. “Soldiers,” he hissed. “Dammit all to hell—they’ve _found_ us.”


	39. No Safe-House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A standoff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're going to get a lil self-indulgent and reveal that this chapter stressed us out immensely because we wrote it like 6 months ago, and it really sucked, and we couldn't figure out how to make it work, and we both thought that we'd lost the joy this fic gives us, but we SALVAGED her and we're both just really proud and happy and excited. 
> 
> **other disclaimer: @thewhiskerydragon speaks French far more fluently than I do (ironic) and should get a shoutout for doing most of the dialogue here p single-handedly (she's fab, you go memey)

Fedya had been ambushed exactly once before in his life.

He had been twenty-four then, a lieutenant, newly appointed and burning with the need to prove himself. General Gudovich had set his troops to wage siege on a Persian settlement in the Armenian foothills. A fleet of Georgian snipers had caught them by surprise during the retreat from Echmiadzin to Yerevan. Of the thirty-six infantrymen in Fedya’s squadron, three had survived. Fedya had escaped with his life and a bullet in the muscle of his right shoulder.

He could smell the smoke again now as they stood in the front hall, hear the screams, taste the gunpowder on his tongue, and he gripped his pistol without thought, his finger ready and waiting at the trigger. Another surprise, and he would shoot, and he would have no say in the matter either. In times like this, his hands had a mind of their own.

He tossed a quick glance up to the stairwell, where the others had gathered in hopeless disarray. Natasha had her arm around Sonya’s shoulders, her other hand holding Pierre’s. Marya stood halfway down the staircase with her revolver drawn.

“ _Les salauds doivent penser que nous sommes aveugles_ ,” said a voice from outside, coarse and unmistakably French.

“ _C’est un pays de salauds_.”

Hélène’s grip on Fedya’s hand tightened spasmodically. Fedya held a finger to his lips and edged closer to the door.

He listened for boot heels scuffling against cobblestone, the crisp shuffling of uniform jackets, the metallic jostling of bayonets. This was a different kind of battlefield to the one he was used to, but a battlefield nonetheless, and the same principles still applied. They had heard three voices, so that made at least three soldiers, plus their dæmons, which made six.

Fedya wiped his palm on the thigh of his trousers. His mind drifted out of his body as he scanned the room for any possible hiding places, escape routes, weapons. The windows were boarded up—no way in for the soldiers, but no way out for them either. Perhaps the dining room, or better yet, the kitchen. Surely there was still some cutlery left in the drawers. If it came to a fight, a bread knife was better than nothing.

But he couldn’t let it come to that.

“Back upstairs,” he hissed. “All of you.”

The troupe tiptoed back up the stairs as quietly as they could, which was to say, not quietly at all. Hélène and Anatole remained with him at the landing.

One of the soldiers banged on the door again. The hairs on the back of Fedya’s neck stood on end.

“ _Nous savons que vous êtes là!_ ”

“Shit,” Anatole said under his breath.

“Hush,” said Fedya.

“They know we’re here. There’s no point in trying to hide.”

Fedya caught his breath and held it for a few moments.

The door was locked. But that wouldn’t hold them out forever, not if they really wanted to come in. It was only a matter of how long their patience would last. Time to think, then. To plot. He’d gotten out of closer calls than this before, hadn’t he? He was the assassin of Persia, cold-blooded, calm in the face of a bayonet, sharp to a fault. He had killed the Shah’s brother in his own bedchamber. He had downed Georgian gunmen crouched in the cliffside while his comrades-in-arms had fallen to their bullets. He had survived Echmiadzin and Austerlitz and Vitebsk, and he would survive this too, in whatever way he had to.

But this wasn’t the same, Fedya realized with a terrible sinking sensation. Not at all. He had survived certainly, but he had survived for himself. Not for Anatole or Hélène or Pierre or Natasha or Marya or Sonya. Not for all of them at once. They were helpless here, all of them but him. All relying on him.

Well. Not entirely.

Fedya was a crack shot, he knew that better than anyone, but it was better to negotiate with words than a gun, especially with a door between them. He looked to Hélène, then immediately decided against it. She hadn’t been heard yet. He wasn’t going to change that.

He touched Anatole’s shoulder instead, startling him out of his petrified stupor, and said, “Can you translate for us, Tolya?”

Anatole’s eyes were wide and panicked. “What?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your French.”

Anatole shook his head hurriedly.

“Then ask them what they want with us.” He looked up to the top of the stairs. “And not a word out of any of you.”

Marya nodded tightly. The others, crowded together as if hoping to disappear entirely, remained silent.

Anatole trembled as he stepped forwards. Fedya longed to put his arms around his waist and pull him close and press his face into his hair and murmur hushed reassurances and comforts. But he had a pistol to hold, and if he moved from where he was now, the muscles and ligaments holding him there may very well have snapped.

“ _Qu’attendez-vous de nous?_ ” said Anatole.

Even now, though he couldn’t understand what he was saying, Fedya marveled at how easily the words rolled off Anatole’s tongue, smooth and easy-sounding as any Parisian.

The first soldier did not sound as impressed. “ _Voyez-vous ça_ ,” he said. “ _Le petit minet parle le français_.”

This remark was met with a round of snickering and laughter. Anatole’s mouth opened in outrage.

“ _Alors, il parle avec un bon accent_ ,” said another voice. “ _Comme un garçon de la noblesse_.”

“ _Comme un chien russe_ ,” said a third.

Anatole took offense to this, evidently, whatever had been said. His pale face flushed an indignant pink. He began to stammer something out in response and managed to say nothing at all.

“ _Où est ton ami, hein?_ ” said the first voice.

“ _M-mon ami?_ ” said Anatole.

“ _L’autre soldat de la ruelle. L’un avec le pistolet_.”

Anatole blanched. “Fedya,” he whispered, leaning away from the door, “I think these are the men we saw in the alley.”

Fedya’s blood ran cold. “What?”

“They’re asking after you. ‘The soldier with the gun’. They must’ve tracked us here.”

From behind him, he heard a floorboard creak. The soldiers were talking among themselves now, but their voices were muffled and indistinct, and it was just as well, he supposed, because he wouldn’t have understood them any less either way.

Tracked them here. The bastards. Of course they had. A thousand empty houses in Moscow, and it was this one they had chosen to descend upon.

“Ask them how they found us,” he said to Anatole.

Anatole swallowed. “ _Comment est-ce que vous nous avez—?_ ”

“ _Tu crois que tu as le droit de demander des questions?_ ”

“ _Il a du toupet!_ ” called another voice.

Anatole visibly faltered. _“Désolé, mais—”_

“ _Qu’êtes-vous? Des renforts? Des espions?_ ”

“ _Non, ne pas du tout_ ,” Anatole said in a breathless rush. “ _Nous ne sommes plus en guerre. Nous sommes des déserteurs. Il n’y a pas de combat entre nous_.”

“What are you _saying_?” Fedya hissed.

“I’m telling them we’re not spies. It’s—”

“ _Spies_?”

“They wanted to know—well, what the fuck do you want me to say, then?”

“Tell them that we don’t want trouble, we’re only trying to get out of here.”

Weakly, Anatole repeated what Fedya had said. The soldiers laughed, as if that were the punchline to a joke only they had heard.

“ _Tu prétends que nous ne sommes plus en guerre_ ,” said the first soldier, a slight sternness to his tone now. “ _Mais ton compagnon d’arme a tué un de nos hommes de sang-froid. Sans provocation. C’est un acte de guerre, cela_.”

“Oh God, Fedya,” Hélène said, her voice just a shade above silence, “they think you’ve killed someone.”

Fedya remembered the alley behind the Club and the flock of soldiers. That shot he had fired, unthinking. The dead man’s dæmon, gone in a burst of light. His heart sank.

“ _Donne-le-nous. Ouvre la porte et donne-le-nous. Nous savons qu’il est là_.”

“ _Quoi_ ,” said Anatole, a little hysterically, “ _vous voulez que je pousse mon camarade en pâture aux lions? Vous dites ça pour bon?_ ”

“ _Bien sûr que oui. C’est un meurtrier_.”

“ _Gâche le fils de putain!_ ” shouted a different voice.

“ _Laisse nous tuer le salaud_ _!_ ” called yet another.

The voices rose upon each other, furious and demanding. A chorus of shouting and barking dogs and metal clanging against the door until it groaned threateningly in its frame. Anatole stepped back, overwhelmed, distraught.

Fedya tugged at Anatole’s sleeve. “What are they saying?”

“They’re angry,” Anatole whispered. “The man you shot yesterday was one of them. They want…they’re saying they want justice for it.”

Fedya’s heart sank a little further. The voices rose higher.

“Oh God,” Natasha whispered.

Then from outside there came the sound of a gun being fired into the air. The room flinched back sharply. The soldiers quieted at once. There were no screams or cries, only an awful ominous silence. Hélène’s grip on Fedya’s arm tightened until her fingertips dug into his sleeve hard enough to bruise.

“ _Ça suffit_ ,” said that same cold clear voice, the first one they had heard speaking, apparently to the other soldiers. “ _Calmez-vous, calmez-vous_.”

The voices grumbled in assent, displeasure evident in it. Obedient dogs. This man was their leader, Fedya surmised, perhaps the highest-ranking of the lot, or maybe just a charismatic opportunist. He had seen enough of those before to recognize it.

“ _Alors_ ,” the first soldier continued, now to Anatole again. “ _Pourquoi ne pas ouvrir la porte pour que nous puissions avoir une belle conversation?_ ”

Pierre reached ahead and gripped Anatole’s arm. Anatole jumped at the contact. Off-balance, his feet scuffled for purchase against the steps, but Pierre’s grip wouldn’t let him fall.

“Tell them we have money. Gold, silver, jewels, whatever they want. It’s theirs as long as they let us go.”

“Shut your mouth, Bezukhov,” said Fedya.

“ _J’savais pas que tu avais de la visite_ ,” said the first soldier.

Anatole looked as if a bayonet had been leveled with his face.

“ _Je me demande qui d’autre tu caches là_.”

“ _Non_ ,” Anatole said feebly. “ _Nous sommes trois. Il n’y a personne d’autre_.”

“ _Est-ce que tu en es vraiment sûr?_ ”

Pierre tightened his grip, hard enough that Anatole yelped softly. “ _Tell_ them.”

Anatole faltered. Pierre released his arm, apologetic.

“ _Nous avons des objets de valeur. Vous pouvez les avoir tous. Est-ce que ça vous satisferait?_ ”

The soldiers laughed again.

“ _Charmant, charmant_.”

“ _Et généreux!_ ”

“ _Mon petit russe, les roubles ne peuvent pas acheter du pain français_.”

Anatole gave an awful nervous laugh. The others stared at him incredulously.

“They said ‘rubles won’t buy French bread’,” he explained. “It’s…it’s sort of poetic, actually.”

Pierre balled his hands in his beard. Khione, balanced precariously on the step behind him, whimpered. “Oh, for the love of—”

“Tell them there’s abandoned houses on every street where they can find food and shelter,” Fedya cut in. “We have nothing to spare here.”

Anatole bit his lip. Fedya saw Danali press her little head close to the pulse-point beneath his ear, the two of them trembling. “ _Il y a des maisons abandonnées dans toutes les rues_ ,” he said to the Frenchmen. His voice wavered dangerously, the way it usually did before he burst into tears or hysterical laughter. Fedya wasn’t sure which of the two he was closer to now. “ _Elles auront de la nourriture. Vous pourriez y avoir tout ce que vous voulez. Nous n’avons rien. Rien du tout. Laissez-nous seul, je vous prie. Nous n’avons rien que vous vouliez_.”

“ _Mon garçon_ ,” said the cold clear voice, “ _tu as déjà ce que nous voulons_.”

Anatole did not respond to this. His face was white and drawn.

Fedya tugged on his sleeve. “Anatole,” he said tightly. “What do they want?”

“I—I don’t know.”

Fedya saw the lie written across his face. There were soldiers who were war-weary, that sort he knew well enough in himself, the kind who saw this as a means to an end and nothing more.

But these men were not like that. These men were angry and jaded, spoiling for something to ruin, hungry dogs with sharp teeth and empty stomachs. There was no reasoning with that sort of senselessness. Whatever they had said to Anatole didn’t need translating.

The pause had stretched too long. “ _T’es encore là, mon garçon_ _?_ ” said the soldier, a slight mocking tilt to his words now.

Anatole nodded, and then, as if remembering that they couldn’t see him nodding, said, “ _Oui, monsieur. J’y suis_.”

“ _Bon gars. On discutera de votre reddition, toi et le soldat et l’autre homme, d’accord?_ ”

Every line in Anatole’s body went tense. Fedya saw Danali whisper something in his ear, and Anatole raised a hand to touch her head, his shoulders drawing in until his jacket seemed to swallow him whole. Then he whispered something back to her, something too low and faint for Fedya to hear, and his posture stiffened a little further, and he forced pleasant indulgence into his tone and said, with a sort of performance that would have been perfectly suited to the stage, “ _D’accord, monsieur_.”

The smile was evident in the soldier’s voice. “ _Bon_.”

“ _Je suis content de continuer à parler de derrière la porte pour l’instant_.”

The man from the other side of the door. “ _Charmant. Parlons, alors_.”

Anatole nodded to himself, biting his lip, a small gesture of what was perhaps self-encouragement. He looked down at the floor, then to Fedya.

“Go upstairs,” he whispered. “Figure something out between yourselves. I’ll keep them entertained.”

Fedya latched onto his wrist. He felt Anatole’s pulse beating far too fast. “Not without you.”

There was something frighteningly cold in Anatole’s eyes. “I’m buying you some time. Find a way to get us the hell out of here. _Go_.”

Paralyzed, Fedya made no move to leave. Too slow for Anatole, evidently. He pushed Fedya back by the shoulders, more forcefully and insistent than Fedya would ever have expected, and turned away. Standing before the door, he seemed impossibly small. Such a delicate thing. His Anatole, his stupid selfish prince, staring death in the eye and forcing himself not to flinch.

Samira let out a soft keening whimper. Fedya felt it twinge sorely through his chest. Hélène shot him a worried look and took his hand.

“Alright,” Fedya murmured. He looked up to the top of the stairs, to Marya and Natasha and Sonya and Pierre, staring down in fear and expectancy. He gave a sharp nod, like giving an order to his brigade, gestured upwards with his pistol still drawn, and together they set off for the drawing room, leaving Anatole alone downstairs with the soldiers looming close on the other side of the door.


	40. The Rat in the Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The house regroups.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be advised that this chapter contains references/ threats to sexual assault in passing.

The troupe assembled in the upstairs drawing room with all the horrified solemnity of prisoners being led to the gallows. Marya closed the door behind them, then on second thought, opened it. Was it worse, she asked herself, to be overheard, or to be unable to hear?

Marya closed the door again.

Salman, perched on her right shoulder, ruffled his wings uneasily. The tip of one of them caught her ear.

“Knock that off, would you,” she snipped.

With a cross look, he folded his wings together. Sonya pressed close to her side, and Marya drew an arm around her trembling shoulders and ran a hand through her hair. Around them, the room shrank as the gravity of the situation settled on everyone.

There came a loud creak as Pierre sank onto the sofa with a vague, distant look on his face, as if his mind was no longer in the room. Khione sat on the floor beside him with her head leaning against his shoulder. Natasha had her arms around her middle, running her hands over her belly.

On the other side of the room were Dolokhov and Elena. Their dæmons were entirely too close for propriety. Marya wrinkled her nose at the sight of it. She shouldn’t have been surprised, she supposed, what with the vulgarity she had witnessed between Elena and Anatole. After the brother, the soldier was almost forgivable.

Dolokhov leaned his head against Elena’s, their hands clasped together, his thumb tracing slow lines across her knuckles, and whispered something too softly to be heard. When Pierre caught sight of them, his eyes gleamed with quiet fury.

“You were going to leave,” he said to Dolokhov. An accusation, not a question. “The three of you.”

Dolokhov raised his head. Elena’s hand tightened around his. Their dæmons drew apart, as if they had only just remembered that they weren’t alone in the room.

“Did you expect us to stay?” he said.

“And what about the rest of us? Did you intend to leave us behind? Was that your plan?”

Dolokhov’s voice was utterly devoid of emotion. “And what of it?”

“We took you in,” said Pierre, with growing anger. “We fed you, we offered you a place to rest your head, and this is how you repay our generosity?”

“ _Pierre_ ,” Natasha said.

“I would’ve imagined you’d be thrilled by the prospect of us packing up and leaving,” Elena said. “If I remember correctly, you were quite happy the last time.”

“That’s not the point,” said Pierre.

“You’re right,” said Dolokhov. He turned to address the room. “The point is that you halfwits decided to linger in a warzone. We weren’t about to make the same mistake.”

“It’s so easy for you to say, isn’t it?” Natasha snapped. “I’m seven months pregnant, Dolokhov. How am I to travel like this?”

“For the sake of your child, you’d best find a way.”

Pierre bristled. “How dare you? Everything that’s happened to us is because of you. We were safe until you three decided to invite yourselves in.”

“No one’s safe in a war, you fool.”

“We were hidden,” said Natasha. “They didn’t know we were here. We were _safe_.”

“We were,” Pierre said to her. “But now that he and Kuragin have brought this menace to our door—”

“It’s not their fault, you great oaf,” snapped Elena.

The furrows of Pierre’s brow deepened. “It most certainly is their fault. How do you think they knew where we were?” He rounded on Dolokhov, who stood as he did. “They knew you. They recognized you, _monsieur le soldat_. You killed their comrade. You’ve led them straight to us.”

“We were cornered,” Dolokhov said. “They found us in the alley behind the French Club—don’t give me that _look_ , we were only trying to find our way back here—but they had dogs for dæmons. They must’ve followed our scent.”

“Followed it back here,” said Pierre. “And now look what you’ve done. We’re all in danger because of you. It’s you they’re after now. What’ll happen if they come for the rest of us?” His voice cracked, dry and brittle. “We have a _child_ to think of. If you had a spark of conscience, you’d walk out that door this minute and turn yourself over.”

Elena darted forwards, quick and lithe as her brother, between Pierre and Dolokhov. Her dæmon stood with his hackles raised and his lips curled back in a snarl. “If you do not hold your tongue, Pierre,” she said, very carefully and dangerously, “I will cut it out myself.”

“You would come to his defense, wouldn’t you?” said Pierre, his voice ugly with accusation. “Of course. You always have. You wouldn’t even admit to your own affair for his sake.”

Elena glowed with outrage. “You’ve no right to speak to me that way. Nothing we’ve ever done to you will come close to how you hurt Anatole.”

“You broke the taboo, the two of you. Your own brother. You’re _sick_ and twisted and—”

“That’s how you see it, eh?” she snarled. “That’s what you think it is?”

Pierre’s eyes widened, fear and recognition in them. Behind him, Khione recoiled.

“You put your hands on his dæmon too, Pierre. Only you did it against his will. What does that make you?”

It seemed to Marya that something vile was coursing through the room, the sickening lurch of revulsion, drawing in on them, threatening to smother if it didn’t poison first.

Marya had known Pierre for six years. In that moment, she felt as though she had never even met him before.

“You wouldn’t do that Petrushka,” said Natasha, her eyes dark and wide and not entirely disbelieving. “She’s lying. You would never.”

Pierre raised a hand to straighten his spectacles. “It was a mistake.”

“He pleaded for you to stop,” Elena said coldly. “Until you choked him half to death. You and I have very different understandings of what constitutes a mistake.”

Pierre and Dolokhov and Elena and Natasha converged on each other like wolves. Voices rose upon voices in an incensed fervor. If they didn’t stop themselves, they’d be shouting in a minute, and it would carry down the stairwell to the front hall and the door, where they would be heard, and—

Well. Marya didn’t need to think of what would come after that. Didn’t want to either.

“ _Really_ ,” she snapped, “I expected you all to be more mature than this.”

Silence. Elena and Pierre drew away from each other at once. Dolokhov lifted his hand away from his pistol.

“Every second we spend arguing here is a second that poor boy is alone with them,” she continued. “We will _not_ waste our time.”

Pierre looked to the doorway, not inconspicuously. Guilt colored his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Marya couldn’t tell whether it was meant for her, Elena, or Anatole.

The room shuddered as it held its breath. There they were, cornered like rats in a cage, to be smoked out, to die in a line at the wall. Weariness sank into their faces, greying out the color of their cheeks. It made them look too young and too old all at once.

Marya steeled herself. This was hardly her house, and beyond Natasha and Sonya, these people were hardly her children, but in that moment they may just as well have been. She would not see this end in ruin. Not so long as she was still breathing.

“Oh, now, don’t be such crybabies,” she said. “We won’t get anything done moping about like this.”

“And what do you expect us to do?” Elena asked flatly.

“Well, I suppose that’s a matter for the Captain to decide.”

At her words, all eyes in the room landed on Dolokhov, whose dæmon raised her head, ears alert and upright, fur bristling on end.

“I beg your pardon,” he said.

“You’re the soldier,” said Marya. “We’re waiting for our orders, Captain.”

Dolokhov took in a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Standing in the center of the room, he looked like a captain at the helm of a ship. There was silence for a moment, until he clapped his hands together and said, “Right. Tolya’s given us a distraction. All we need is an out. I assume there’s a backdoor they don’t know about?”

“No, there isn’t,” Pierre broke in.

“What?”

“I had the house renovated,” he said bashfully. “After…after the divorce. They blocked off the backdoor to put in another bookshelf.” He lowered his voice, and his eyes darted to Natasha. “For the library.”

Dolokhov pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “There’s no way we can get to it?”

“There’s nothing to get to. It’s bricked in.”

“Wait,” Elena said suddenly. “There’s a window in the pantry that overlooks the servant’s entrance. The backstreet crosses the Garden Ring. We wouldn’t even have to pass Prechistensky Boulevard.”

“It doesn’t open,” said Pierre. “It’s glazed shut both ways. I’ve tried.”

“Then we’ll break it,” Marya said.

Pierre made an incredibly undignified choking sound.

Dolokhov nodded brusquely. “I have a contact who lives down by the Rybenka who runs a troika business. He owes me a favor. I say we make our way to him, hire a cart or two and a few horses, and get the hell out of this city before the French decide to start banging down the door.”

Natasha folded her arms across her stomach. “Princess Mary has an estate out in the Bald Hills. It’s not too far from here. I don’t imagine the French will have touched it just yet.”

“Then we’ll go there,” said Marya. “And we’ll figure out the next step once we’re all out of harm’s way.”

“Pack only what you can carry with you,” Dolokhov said, addressing the room. “And bring something to arm yourselves with. We leave in two minutes.”

Marya folded her arms across her chest with all the composure she could muster. “Right,” she said. “You heard him. Make yourselves useful.”

* * *

 

Anatole couldn’t seem to stop himself from shaking.

The last time he had been asked to mediate had been shortly after he had first arrived in Moscow, when Fedya had challenged a visiting Frenchman to a game of poker. Anatole had lent his assistance to both sides, translating for the Frenchman and yelling out the card suits in Russian for Fedya. About halfway into the first round, the Frenchman must’ve cottoned on to their ruse, or perhaps he’d just lost too much money, because he threw his cards onto the table and called Fedya a cheating son of a whore, and Anatole hadn’t had the sense then to spare Fedya the translation.

Whether it was the Frenchman or Fedya who has thrown the first punch was anyone’s guess, though Fedya swore to this day it had been him, and Anatole was by nature and experience inclined to believe him. In the ensuing barfight, Fedya had gotten away with a split lip. Anatole had walked home that night with a limp and a horrendous black eye that hadn’t faded for almost a month. Luck, it seemed, wasn’t the sort of thing that came to him when things came to blows.

He doubted this would be any different.

So far, he had counted six, maybe seven voices outside the door. One with a heavy Breton drawl, one from the south of France—Gascon, perhaps, or at least something vaguely Occitan—another as Parisian as his childhood tutor. The loudest of them spoke with a strong Provençal accent. This one was the ringleader, he supposed.

“What is your rank and title?” Anatole asked, trying to inject some of Fedya’s authority into his voice.

“Title?” said the first soldier, vaguely amused. “My boy, just who exactly do you think we are?”

“I don’t know,” Anatole said. “Why don’t you tell me?”

A soft chuckle. “Caporal Nicolas Dubois. And you?”

“Prince Anatole Vasilyevich Kuragin. From Petersburg.”

The smile was evident in his tone. “A prince, eh? What are you doing in Moscow these days?”

“I heard it was lovely this time of year,” he said drily. “Thought I might pay a visit before it was too late.”

The earned him a round of laughter.

“Such a wit,” Nicolas said. “Tell me, my boy, are all Russian princes as charming as you?”

“No,” he said cautiously. “They really aren’t.”

“How fortunate we are to make your acquaintance then.”

Anatole narrowed his eyes and studied the door, wondering what he might see beyond it. A bit of silvery light had worked its way through the transom window. Through its panes he could see the night-dark sky, edged with the slightest tinge of gold. He pictured the porch, the street, the soldiers. The faces he had seen in the alley were too vague and unmemorable to conjure to mind. But the voices were tangible enough, Caporal Nicolas’s most of all. He pictured someone of a medium height, clean-shaven, mid-thirties, if not a little older. A dog for a dæmon. Something clever and deceptively unassuming. A bloodhound, maybe.

“Thank you,” he said.

“And who is your other friend? Another prince?”

“No, no.”

“This is his house, no?”

“Yes, it is. He offered us shelter.”

“How generous of him. Why?”

“He was lonely,” Anatole said without thinking. “He thought he’d enjoy our company.”

“A bachelor, eh?”

Anatole thought of Natasha, pregnant Natasha upstairs, and swallowed. “As far as I’m aware.”

“So it’s only the three of you in there?”

From the floor above there came the sound of shuffling footsteps and the groan of floorboards. He turned his head up to the ceiling. Perhaps if he listened closely enough, he would hear the voices of the others. What were they saying now? What were they thinking? Had they come up with a plan yet?

How much more time could he give them?

“I’m quite sure I’d’ve noticed by now if there were more,” he quipped, keeping his eyes on the ceiling.

“And where has the soldier gone?”

“He’s shy,” he said. “He doesn’t speak any French, you see. Truth be told, I think he feels a little left out.”

“Poor bastard,” said another voice, this one coarser and lower than Nicolas’s. “How lucky he is to have you to interpret.”

Anatole hesitated at his tone. Still calm, more collected than would imply an outright threat. But there was something unsettling in it, something that set his skin crawling with ants.

“I suppose he is,” he said cautiously.

“And what is your soldier’s business in Moscow?” asked Nicolas.

At _your soldier_ , there came a gentle round of snickering, comments spoken too softly for him to parse out, as if they had taken to speaking amongst themselves instead of to him. Or perhaps they had been speaking to each other all along and he hadn’t paid enough mind until now to notice. Danali bristled.

“I asked him to accompany me.”

“Strange company you’ve chosen for yourself.”

“It’s not safe to travel alone these days,” Anatole said. “What with marauding Frenchmen everywhere you look.”

Again, the Frenchmen laughed, as if he had just told them a joke over a round of drinks at the Club. The ease of it was disarming. Deceptive, that. Dangerous.

“Sensible,” said Nicolas. “I took you for a smart lad. Educated.”

“I should like to return the compliment.”

“Our humblest thanks, Your Highness!” called a mocking voice from the back of the group.

“Lot of good that fancy education did him.”

“It’s done me well enough,” Anatole said crossly. “How many of _you_ can speak Russian?”

“And which of us is hiding behind a locked door?”

“He’ll come out for us eventually,” said one Frenchman to another. “Our rat in his hole.”

Anatole tugged at the collar of his shirt to loosen it before it could strangle him. He couldn’t seem to breathe right. His heart was beating far too heavily, his hands, God, why were his hands shaking so hard? Why was all of him trembling? Why couldn’t he _breathe_?

“You don’t make a terribly compelling case for coming out, you know,” he said.

“Give it three missed meals, boy, and I think you’ll find we’re more compelling than you give us credit for.”

“And he’s already such a slender thing!”

“Pretty as a girl.”

Jeering and whistling followed. Another voice said, “Wonder if he’d fuck like a girl too.”

Anatole flinched at the jibe. And because he was frightened and angry, and because when he was frightened and angry, he mouthed off and said things he’d later come to regret, he curled his hands into fists and sneered, “I think it’s more a question of whether or not you can fuck like a man.”

“Ah, so _that’s_ what the soldier’s for,” said the mocking voice.

The Frenchmen laughed uproariously. Anatole burned with indignation. As he opened his mouth to retort, Danali nipped his ear sharply, as if to say _watch your goddamn tongue_.

Anatole closed his mouth. The Frenchmen didn’t.

“You like a man in uniform, eh?”

“He likes them coarse!”

“Of course he does,” someone scoffed. “The spoilt prince needs calloused hands touching all that soft skin.”

“Big strong man to put him in his place.”

“How many other men has your soldier killed?”

“No, no,” Anatole began, but the voices converged on him before he could say anything more.

“How would he feel if we were to return the favor?”

These men were not laughing anymore.

“We’ll get in eventually,” one of them said. “See that pretty face again.”

Anatole took a step back from the door. He felt his heart sinking lower with every second, the pit of his stomach turning to ice. Surely someone would put a stop to this. Honorable soldiers didn’t behave this way. Fedya never would have. Neither would Bolkonsky.

Danali let out a quiet chitter and darted to his shoulder. He ran a trembling hand over her fur. Not for the first time since yesterday, he found himself entirely at a loss for words.

“You’ve scared the poor dear.”

“Timid little thing.”

“Sweet and timid for his soldier.”

Anatole remembered the two men who had accosted him at the camp after Vitebsk, and he was overcome with the same helpless terror he had felt then. His hand went to his pistol. He thumbed the hammer, felt along its underside for the trigger. The metal against his skin was cold as death.

No, he told himself. No point to it. What good would it do him, even if his hands could stop shaking long enough to shoot properly?

Anatole drew his hand away from the gun.

“Are you still with us, Prince Anatole?” asked a soldier.

“I am,” he said.

“I suggest you keep talking,” Nicolas said smoothly. “I should hate to think of what would happen, were you to stop.”

Anatole swallowed. It went down like broken glass. “I had no idea my company was so desired. I’m flattered, truly.”

Nicolas chuckled. “He’s a charmer, this one,” he said, evidently to someone else.

“It’d be a shame to have to kill him.”

Anatole went cold at once. Had Danali’s claws not held her so firmly in place, she may have fallen flat off his shoulder. Every inch of him screamed to run, but there was nowhere to run to, no place to hide, and his feet had frozen to the floor in terror.

“I’ve done nothing to you,” he said, a little hysterically.

“You’re complicit in sheltering an enemy combatant. But if you’re a good boy and surrender yourself, we’ll see that no harm comes to you.”

“Are you _mad_?” he snapped. “Have you not been listening to yourselves?”

“We’re men of honor, Prince Anatole. We treat our prisoners well.”

Anatole shook his head, though he knew they wouldn’t see. “I know how you treat your prisoners.” His hands trembled in blind anger. He thought of Andrei, and the memory of it coursed through him like a shudder of revulsion. “I saw it at Avdotyino. Your men separated people from their dæmons. You ripped them apart and then left them to die alone. You’ve no right to call yourselves men of honor. The filth you walk in has more honor than you.”

For a moment, no one said anything. They didn’t need to. The shock of it was palpable in the air, disbelief, disgust, then offense. The Frenchmen began to murmur among each other in gravely hushed tones. Good, thought Anatole. Let them hear. Let them know the truth.

“That’s not true—”

“Lying Russian cur.”

“You don’t believe me?” said Anatole. “Ask your commanding officer.”

“You think the Russians haven’t done the same?” Nicolas shot back. “You think your Tsar hasn’t separated men from their dæmons?”

Anatole’s mouth went dry. “You’re wrong. We didn’t—we would _never_ —”

“This is war, Prince Anatole. There is nothing beneath men in times like this. Yesterday your comrade shot a man dead on sight, and for what? You’re no better than any of us.”

* * *

 

They packed as quickly as they could.

The pokers lying dormant in the fireplace; candle holders, bread knives, dining forks, hat pins sharpened against Fedya’s pocket knife until they would draw blood; Pierre’s paperweight, the one in the shape of a bear; canes and umbrellas; pots and pans, heavy enough to bludgeon—the house was a veritable weapons arsenal.

Marya and Sonya went about throwing their clothes into carpetbags while Pierre pried up the floorboards in one corner, the little nook where Anatole used to hide the wine. The room had been set alight with a frantic sort of energy.

Fedya re-loaded his pistol, checking each chamber, running the plan through his head like a mantra, taking comfort in the growing familiarity of it. It was sound enough. He knew the way to the Rybenka from here, he and Anatole both knew it well enough, they could lead the others, take every backstreet and shortcut they knew, down to the river, to the city limits where Balaga kept his caravan and his troikas. Natasha in her current state would complicate things to say the least. But he couldn’t think of these things yet, not until they were out of the house. One step at a time. One obstacle, then another. One last bullet, and the magazine would be full.

Hélène’s hand closed around his wrist. “Fedya,” she murmured.

Fedya looked up from his pistol.

Something dark and unfathomable was lurking behind Hélène’s eyes. The corners of her mouth were tight, the grip of her hand around his arm steel-firm. Dahanian had pressed himself to her side until there wasn’t an inch of space between them. Frightening, how much she resembled her brother.

Fedya realized that he was trembling. Hélène released his arm and frowned.

“Are you alright?” she asked quietly.

Fedya swallowed. He hadn’t known until now how afraid he was. He hadn’t known what fear was, not truly, not until this moment. He needed them, he realized distantly. He couldn’t lose both of them, no more than he could lose Samira, no more than he could bear to part with his own soul.

“I’m petrified,” he said.

For the first time in his life, he felt no shame in admitting it.

“I am too,” Hélène said. “You’re in good company.”

Fedya laughed, even though his voice hitched, and ran his fingers through her dark curls. Suddenly her face grew urgent, and she took one of his hands in her own, tightly, desperately, and kissed it.

“I love you, Fedya,” she whispered. “I couldn’t stop thinking—I—I needed you to know.”

For a long moment, Fedya was unable to speak. His eyes burned wetly. His heart, tender and heavy as it was, leapt into his throat and choked off his voice. When their dæmons touched, something deeper still twisted in him, warm and ancient and achingly familiar, as if an invisible pair of hands had closed around his very soul.

“I love you too,” he said.

Hélène wiped the tears from his cheeks with both thumbs. “No more of this.”

“Alright,” he said, blinking. “We’ll be brave for Tolya.”

Her lip trembled as she nodded. “For Tolya.”

To the side of them, a throat was cleared. Hélène and Fedya turned to look. They didn’t break apart this time.

Pierre had on his greatcoat, a carpetbag slung over one shoulder and a heavy leather book under one arm and Natasha’s hand held tightly in his. Sonya stood with her suitcase propped against her hip. Marya held a naphtha lamp ahead of her, her dæmon perched at the crook of her elbow. The four of them looked as if they had been thrown from the back of a moving train with their luggage and told to run for the hills. But there was determination in their eyes.

“Captain Dolokhov,” Marya said, “we’re ready whenever you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We appreciate and love and cherish all your feedback! We do ask that you remember though that this is an endeavour we have taken up solely because of our love for Comet/ W&P! We are not professional writers, and this is really more of a chance for us to play with ideas that we think could be interesting.


	41. The Flaw in the Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A decision is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been, by far, the most emotionally taxing chapter to post. We apologize.

Natasha had never seen the front hall so dark or forbidding.

They made their way out to the top of the stairs, careful not to make a sound. The staircase was wide enough for only two at a time. Marya and Sonya went first. Pierre carried his and Natasha’s things in his arms. Hélène and Dolokhov brought up the rear. At the landing, Anatole was still speaking in rapid-fire French to the door, to the men behind it. He sounded near tears. Natasha heard the Frenchmen shouting, braying and coarse, their voices overwhelming his.

Without meaning to, without realizing it, she stopped to stare. His back was to her. He couldn’t see her, didn’t even know she was looking, that she was there at all. Maybe that was for the better.

As she walked by, Marya squeezed his shoulder and pressed the naphtha lamp into his hands. A small gesture of kindness, a reassurance. Anatole’s eyes widened in surprise. He offered Marya a feeble smile before turning his attention back to the door, and Marya swept past him and pushed the rest of them onwards. Hélène and Dolokhov hung back without a word.

The hallway was dark as pitch, the walls two black creatures converging on them on either side. Natasha cast a quick final look over her shoulder to the front hall, Anatole holding the lamp, the only source of light in the world, Hélène and Dolokhov standing on either side of him. Something shameful and sorrowful burned inside her.

“Tasha,” came the soft sound of Pierre’s voice. Hardly more than a whisper.

Natasha turned her head.

Pierre’s face was almost too dark to make out in the sparse light that filtered in through the transom window. He had a nervous, almost apologetic air about him. After the debacle in the drawing room, Natasha could understand why. In his hands he held a large green book. _Studies in Metaphysics & Alethiometry_.

“You kept it?” she whispered.

“I couldn’t leave it behind,” he said. “I know we couldn’t take all the others, but I couldn’t bear to leave—I mean I knew it was your favorite—”

The rest of his sentence trailed off aimlessly. Natasha reached for his hand and traced his palm with one finger, lingering on his wedding band. Pierre visibly relaxed at her touch.

“I love you,” she murmured.

Pierre caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “I love you too.”

Natasha’s heart swelled, heavy and tender. Whatever he had done, she decided, whatever had transpired between him and Anatole and Hélène and Dolokhov, it didn’t matter now. It wouldn’t, at least, until they had gotten to safety, however far away that was.

Marya pushed them along down the corridor to the kitchen and the servants’ passageway. The pantry was a small square room, its shelves now empty, a butcher’s table in one corner, a low-set window on one wall overlooking the street. Through its panes Natasha could see the alley, dirty and dark. She felt her heart quicken. There it was, so close, so tantalizingly near. A half a foot of drywall and plaster and wood and glass between them and escape.

“Right,” said Sonya, setting down her suitcase. Removed from the front hall, she seemed comfortable speaking above a whisper. Tobery wriggled out of Sonya’s arms. Salman watched him closely from Marya’s shoulder. “What now?”

“There’s our window,” Marya said. “Let’s hop to it now.”

Sonya’s eyes flickered to the door and the darkened hall beyond it. “What about the others?”

“We’ll fetch them, dear,” said Marya. “Don’t worry about them now.”

“They’ll hear it once we break the window,” said Sonya, a little haltingly. “The soldiers. Won’t they?”

“We’ll be gone before they can do anything.”

Sonya looked back to the window. Now her voice grew quiet. “And how will we break it?”

Pierre pressed the book into Natasha’s hands and shucked his coat off, onto the floor. “I have an idea,” he said, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows. “Everyone, out of the way.”

“Pyotr Kirillovich,” Marya began.

Pierre cut her off. “Marya,” he said, “you really should stand back.”

Rather forcefully, her face stern and grey, Marya put her arms around the girls and pulled them aside.

Pierre placed his hands on the underside of the table and bent his knees. Natasha held her breath as he straightened his back, hauled the table clean off the floor without even trying, all the immovable effortless force of a mountain. He raised it above his head, swaying ever so slightly, teetering in the air. For a moment, nothing moved.

Then, with an enormous heave, Pierre hurled the table forwards.

The sound of it was unreal. Shattered glass rained down on both sides of the wall, catching the last beams of moonlight. Natasha flinched back and covered her ears. Pierre stood back, panting, and wiped his palms on his waistcoat.

“Well,” said Marya. “I suppose that’d do it.”

Natasha swelled with pride. It lifted her onto her toes. Her beautiful, strong bear. He would save them yet.

“Alright,” Pierre said, giddy and flushed. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

And with that, he swung one massive leg over the frame, balancing himself with his hands. A shard of broken glass caught on his trouser leg.

“Be careful, Petrushka!” Natasha said.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, mind the glass, Pierre!” Marya snapped.

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” Pierre grunted, lifting his other leg. He threw his considerable weight sideways with such force that he toppled through the frame and to the street. A second later, he was back on his feet, his shirt disheveled and hanging with bits of glass, his glasses dangling from one ear, a mad smile splitting his face. Khione climbed after him. She was almost too wide for the window.

“There we go,” Pierre said to her, coaxing. “Careful, you’ll get your fur snagged.”

Khione stumbled through the window with a loud huff and fell to the street. The air of the room seemed to still in anticipation.

Natasha felt Marya’s hand on her lower back gently urging her forwards. “You should go next, dear. I’ll send Sonya after you.”

Natasha ran one hand over her belly. Uncertainty paralyzed her. She felt a strange horrid tightness in the pit of her stomach that she recognized a moment later as fear. “Will it be safe?”

Pierre pressed close to the wall, broken glass crunching underfoot, and offered her his arms. “It will. I won’t let you fall.”

“It’ll be just like climbing the trees at Otradnoe,” Sonya said. “You’ve done it before.”

“I wasn’t nearly so round then,” Natasha said through gritted teeth. “And there’s glass in the street.”

“We don’t have time to dawdle, Natalya,” Marya said, a little sharply.

Natasha braced her hands on Pierre’s forearms. Pierre looked up through his filthy spectacles, through the hair that had fallen across his forehead. She tightened her grip. Already, her palms were sweat-slick.

“I’ve got you, Tasha,” he said. “Just step over the sill and I’ll catch you. I won’t let you fall.”

Natasha bit her lip and glanced down at the street below her, littered with shards of broken glass, suddenly a forbidding drop. Pierre seemed to read her thoughts.

“We’ll do it on my count,” he said, “Alright?”

She nodded.

“One, two, _three_ —”

Natasha looked up to the sky, closed her eyes, and stepped off the window sill into Pierre’s arms. Her feet left the floor in a dizzying rush. For a moment, it seemed that she could have taken off in flight.

Pierre gently lowered her to the street. Natasha opened her eyes.

It occurred to her that she had never seen this side of the house before. This was a narrow gunnel, half-overshadowed by the roof, redbrick on either side. Running along the street there was a shallow gutter puddled with dirty rainwater. Natasha threw her arms around Pierre’s neck and buried her face in his chest, pressing her cheek to his heartbeat.

“You’re alright, my darling,” he whispered. “We’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to us, I swear.”

Natasha drew back so that Pierre could help Marya and Sonya hoist their carpetbags through the window. Sonya knelt to the floor to gather Tobery in her arms and allowed Pierre to lift her out to the street. Marya took up position next, muttering under her breath about _the indignity of it all_ and struggling to clamber through the window with as little help as possible.

Something dreadful and grave came over Sonya, and her face grew pale. In her arms, Tobery whimpered.

“We have to fetch the others,” she said to Marya. “We have to get them _now_. Something’s wrong.”

* * *

 

Anatole knew he was running out of time when the soldiers began shouting death to the Tsar.

The naphtha lamp in his hands burned with a strong rosy hum, lighting the front hall, casting it in gold. He felt its heat warming his front and silently thanked Marya. As the others made their way down the corridor—he didn’t know what it was they had planned, but it must have been _something_ —Hélène and Fedya broke away from the group to stand with him, one on either side. Hélène slipped her hand into his and squeezed it three times. Fedya took his face in his hands and kissed his forehead, short and simple and chaste.

“Thank you for keeping us safe, Tolya,” he whispered. “We’re almost out of the woods, I swear.”

Anatole felt a quiet swell of confidence in his chest. There was safety in this, tremulous and fleeting as it may have been. Comfort, at the very least.

And then:

“Prince Kuragin,” Nicolas snapped.

At the voice, Anatole was jolted back to reality. He realized that he had been quiet for too long. Their patience, thin as it had been to start, had worn. God only knew how thin it was now.

“This little game of yours is growing tiresome,” the caporal continued. “We’ve indulged you long enough. Either you can open the door and let us in, or you can come out yourselves. It’s up to you. Make your choice.”

Anatole’s breath stilled. Hélène looked on in horror, Fedya in confused concern. Which was worse, he wondered—the terror of knowing, or the dread of not?

 _Think,_ he told himself. _Think of something. Stall. Anything you can._

“W-would you give me a minute?” he said. The words felt dry and hard in his mouth.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Only a minute. I should speak to my comrades. This is a serious matter, you understand.”

Nicolas laughed coldly, maliciously. “Do you honestly think you’re in any position to make demands?”

“I never meant—”

“The only reason we haven’t broken down the door is because you have the capacity to be amusing. No, you may not leave. You’ll make me quite angry if you do. And you’re trying my patience as is.”

Anatole’s heartbeat grew frantic as canine footsteps circled the porch. He heard fabric shuffling up and down the front steps, and the door groaned in its frame as a heavy weight leaned against it. Even though he couldn’t see them, he could feel the way the soldiers bristled hotly, lapping at the wall like a pack of wolves. His skin crawled with ants. He worried the nail of his index finger at the hangnail on his thumb, trying to claw the itch out, until it drew blood and he had to stop.

“Alright,” he said, his heart heavy in his chest, like something leaden. “My apologies, _monsieur._ ”

“Such a polite young man,” said another Frenchman.

A palm slammed into the door and sent it rattling. Then five more. Anatole heard whistling and rising voices and dogs barking.

“Open the door, little russkie.”

“You can’t hide in there forever!”

“We know how you like to show a man in a uniform a good time!”

“Come out for us, princey.”

Hélène’s hold on his arm tightened. Anatole felt ashamed and didn’t quite understand why. Whatever strange sense of relief and bravery that had come over him after seeing her again, it was gone now. He wished for a moment that she were gone too, that she hadn’t come back for him in the first place, if only to spare himself the humiliation of her hearing this.

“We were going to treat you gently,” said Nicolas. Anger strained his words now, barely-repressed. “But now you’ve insulted us and impugned our honor.”

 _Oh, God_ , Anatole thought, dread rising in his chest. It was him they were after now. Him they would fall upon once the door was opened. If they were the wolves, then he was the rabbit, and he had just flung himself right into their den.

No, he remembered. That wasn’t how the saying went. A den of lions, not a den of wolves.  

Anatole swallowed. Danali quivered as she curled herself around his neck. His hand came up to stroke her back. To his own alarm, he realized that he too was trembling.

“ _Messieurs_ ,” he said, “I’m sure we can agree there’s no need for hostility—”

From somewhere behind him there came a deafening crash, the sound of shattering glass and an enormous weight crashing to the floor, loud and sudden as a gunshot. Anatole skittered forwards, his back to the door, his heart beating too fast.

“What the fuck was that?” shouted Nicolas.

Anatole looked ahead, through the open door of the hallway. A light was on in the kitchen. The sound, whatever it had been, had come from the pantry. Shattering glass. A window, he realized.

Hélène and Fedya’s faces lightened. Dahanian and Samira tensed, every inch of them. Anatole’s heart skipped a beat, and he felt Danali’s claws tighten in the fabric of his shirtsleeve. There it was. Their out. His escape. Salvation. He felt himself tense in anticipation. All was not lost.

“Kuragin!” snarled Nicolas.

“It was nothing,” he said, still not facing the door. “Nothing. Just—just the house settling down for the night.”

“He’s lying again, the son of a bitch,” growled one of the Frenchmen.

“What the fuck are you playing at?” said Nicolas.

Anatole’s blood ran cold as ice.

Something hard and heavy rammed against the door, like the butt of a rifle, or seven. The door groaned, cracks like spiderwebs running through it. Anatole jumped at the sound. The lamp fell from his hand, and its glass panes shattered against the floor. Oil spilled across the floorboards. With a yellow flicker, the flame leapt from the naphtha wick like something live and anbaric.

“ _Shit_ ,” he hissed.

“No, no, no,” said Fedya.

The rug was alight in an instant. Anatole tried to stamp it out with his feet, but it leapt away from his heels, dancing along the floor, licking along the baseboard, crawling up the wall, lapping at the drapes and doilies and wallpaper, heat and fire rising in a hellish fervor. He stumbled back and stared in grotesque horror and fascination as it grew.

On the other side of the corridor, Fedya and Hélène flew back from the fire as if on instinct, their dæmons with them. In three seconds it had come between them, three feet high. Anatole would have stepped back, but behind him was the door, and there was no way out, and the Frenchmen were shouting and calling for his head, death in either direction, no mercy at all.

Realization crept in with tricky fingers and chilled the air. Anatole’s heart faltered with the weight of dread.

He was trapped.

* * *

 

Fedya had never known this kind of fear before.

The heat was blistering, relentless and merciless. It was as if the gates of Hell had opened before them. And Hell lurked on the other side of the wall, pressing close, looming, breathing down their necks.

With its every bang, the door shook in its frame. Fedya saw splinters flying off on the other side and cracks running through the wood, and he stepped back on instinct as another crash rattled out and the soldiers’ voices rose, profane and furious.

Fedya met Anatole’s eyes across the flames. Something in him had changed. Fedya didn’t know what it was, but it frightened him more than anything he had ever seen in his life.

“You need to go,” said Anatole, in a broken voice. “They won’t follow you now.”

“We’re not leaving you behind,” Fedya said.

The smoke was rising in billows now, curling along the ceiling in grey plumes, blackening the wallpaper. Fedya raised his arm to his face, shielding his eyes. The taste of soot burned in the back of his throat. He felt a familiar, deep ache in his chest as Samira edged away from the fire with a keening whimper while his feet remained firmly rooted in place. He strained forwards, against all sense, against the awful heartrending pull of his own soul and the unbearable heat of the fire, and if he kept pushing like this he’d be split in half, but he couldn’t leave and he couldn’t stay, and the room was filling with smoke and the heat was rising, throat-scorching and unbearable, and there was nothing he could _do_.

“You have to,” Anatole said. His voice hitched, catching on itself, an awful anguished sound. “I—I don’t think I can go with you.”

Hélène darted forwards, reaching, but there was nothing to reach to, nothing but distance between them. Fedya caught her by the wrist and pulled her to safety. On the other side of the hallway, Anatole began to draw away, shielding his face with his sleeve.

“You’ll be alright,” said Hélène. “Everything will be alright. Just”—she turned her head away to cough—“just give me a minute to think.”

“Lena—”

Before he could finish, Anatole doubled over on himself as a coughing fit seized his chest, the sound of it harsh and doglike. Fedya watched it wrack his shoulders in dismay. When Anatole raised his head, there were tears streaming down his soot-streaked face, and Danali’s fur had gone grey from the smoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, Toto,” Hélène said in a rushed whisper, and now Fedya could hear panicked tears edging their way into her voice. “Don’t say that, you don’t need to.”

From the door there came another great crash that made them all flinch. The wood splintered, bent, gave. It would buckle with another hit, Fedya knew that in an instant. Anatole cast a quick look over his shoulder, then turned to Fedya, his eyes wide with fear and recognition, a haunted look about him.

Something wordless passed between them. Fedya felt as though someone had taken his soul and ripped it apart, painful as having Samira torn away from him, and he saw now what he hadn’t before, or hadn’t wanted to.

Anatole was lost to him already. There was nothing he could do now. Nothing left.

Nothing but Hélène.

Whatever he did now, he knew he would never forgive himself for it. But he was running out of time, and he had never been the sort to falter under fire. There were certain decisions a soldier had to make. And if he hesitated now, he would have only failed Anatole a second time.

Fedya took Hélène by the waist and pulled her against his chest. Hélène tensed at once.

“No,” she said, struggling, every word driving through him like a knife, hot and anguished. “No, Fedya, you can’t—please, he can’t be alone, I don’t want—”

Guilt burned him. Fedya looked for something to say to her, but there was nothing left in him. He began to pull her towards the back door, even as her feet dragged across the floor, heels digging into the rug.

Her voice climbed to a scream. “ _Toto_ —!”

Hating himself, unable to bear her cries, Fedya pressed a hand over her mouth to silence her. Hélène fought him the whole way, sobs hitching in the back of her throat, her limbs flying but catching nothing, no purchase, no gain. Dahanian resisted at first, but the pull was too strong.

Anatole turned away from them. Fedya heard him crying over the crackle of the flames and the Frenchmen and the front door as it began to give. The sound of it sent a cold, sharp pang through his heart.

Fedya kicked the hallway door shut. It wouldn’t hold the fire or the soldiers for long. But he couldn’t bear to see Anatole anymore. And as he dragged Hélène back through the kitchen, to the pantry with its floor showered in glass, he fought to push down the grief that threatened to cut off his breath.

“We’ll be alright,” he said to her, repeating it over like a mantra. It barely made sense to his own ears. “We’re almost out. We’ll be alright.”

There was the window, and the others beyond it. Outside, the night sky had given way to early sunrise, and the darkness was receding, gold as dawn.

It was morning, and the moon was still out. No end to this night.

**Author's Note:**

> The two of us love kudos and comments with all the force our lil hearts can muster! They are deeply appreciated!


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